At the Gates of Recognition
by Bookworm Kate
Summary: Foyle's War: Takes place during'The Russian House'. Sam comes back to Hastings for the Milner Christening in June 1945 and ends up staying with Foyle; when her new boss is murdered, she turns to her former employer once again for help and comfort. The War may be over, but they are still struggling on. Together, they begin to realise theirs is more than a usual friendship. Foyle/Sam
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This will be my tenth story for _Foyle's War_ and I suppose I wanted to make a bit of an occasion of it (_do_ forgive me).  
About six years or more ago it occurred to me that there might be others out there just as taken and interested with _Foyle's War_, Michael Kitchen, and perhaps even those who also fancied the idea of Foyle and Sam together. The internet search brought up only a handful of fanfiction stories. I savoured them all and was delighted that these authors had seen the same things I'd seen between characters, enjoyed the history and attention to detail of _Foyle's War_, and took pleasure from old fashioned, enigmatic styles.

These fanfic authors I stumbled across wrote such beautiful stories; intricate and sweet; so poignant and well described. They inspired me to 'pick up my pen' as it were, and I wrote a few tentative fanfics that were immediately stuffed into dusty hard drives. (One of which I've unearthed that centres around a sexy encounter during an air raid between Sam and Foyle - in pantry of all places…) I couldn't let it go, however. It was a curiosity that only grew, and as the community of Foyle fanfic writers began to slowly spread, I put my two cents worth in. The community of fans is wonderful: supportive and cheering one on to the next post every time. I've grown as a fanfic writer because of you all who so graciously come back for more. This little tale is for those original _Foyle's War_ fanfic writers (you know who you are!), and equally for those who have recently arrived and made it so fabulously their own. What a _fantastic_ community of writers - it is a privilege to be here, I assure you.

As always, no copyright infringement intended.

* * *

Chapter 1

The bus rumbled along pleasantly through clear skies, stopping to pick up a few passengers along the way. Samantha Stewart stared out of her window, gazing across the downs, waiting for her first glimpse of the sea. Dressed in a new and sensible frock with a red jacket, she looked very smart, and the soft look on her face indicated she was looking forward to something.

Though she was indeed excited to be returning to Hastings for the day, her mind was busy with thoughts of how it had been the last time she was there. The War had just ended and the streets had been full of returned servicemen and civilians dancing, singing, and generally making merry. The drinks flowed in an unquenchable river, and Sam had been there with them, just as relieved and ecstatic.

She had slipped into the crowd, dressed in her MTC uniform, with Andrew Foyle in his RAF uniform. She knew that they made a stunning pair, both looking young and fresh, but she had separated from him eventually to look for his father, her boss, DCS Christopher Foyle. He had said he would come find them, but it had been an hour and he hadn't yet made an appearance on the high street. As she pushed through the crowd she was buffeted from person to person. It was hard to make her way through, and after being waylaid by men in uniform taking up her hands to dance, she gave in to the catching spirit of frenzy that whispered through the crowd.

It was only afterwards, finally having made it home in the early hours and slumping on a chair from exhaustion, that Sam was struck by a thought. It startled her, this realisation: the _softness_ of these men she had danced with, these boys in uniform. They had been moulded over five years into unfathomable hardness, and now that they had returned to their place of origin, they crumbled. She had felt it in their touch and seen it in their faces. Sam had clearly seen that they were afraid: of the silence when they had only known noise; afraid to kiss their mothers; afraid to shirk the uniform that had become a second skin; afraid to love their best girls and wives like they once had done.

No, now it was all sharp movements and quivering muscles; eyes that darted unseeing over the crowds. They had put strong, brown arms around her while dancing, beery breath by her ear, and forced laughter on their faces — but they were afraid. She saw it in Andrew when he thought she wasn't looking, and it pained her to think about all these young men, desperate for a touch of kindness or tenderness. They had held on to her arms like small boys. This, after all, was the softness they had fought for — home and families and England. Yet, it all had changed. There was no longer any softness here, Sam decided, the War had seen to that.

Jolted from her memories of her last days in Hastings, Sam realised they were nearly there, the sea twinkling brightly from beyond the Old Town. She smiled, glad to be back and looking forward to seeing old friends again. She would have to hurry a bit from the bus stop to reach the Church for the Christening on time. A small flutter went through her stomach as she thought about seeing her former colleagues; of seeing _Foyle_ again.

That had been the hardest part of leaving Hastings: not being with Foyle each day. After five years, how could she not miss her days with him? He had been a very thoughtful boss, including her, explaining things patiently for the most part, and making her feel useful. It had been over a month since she had left Hastings. She had gone to tea with Andrew and Foyle before leaving for her new job. Now, smiling broadly at the prospect of seeing Foyle soon, she leapt off the bus, making haste through the Old Town and heading for St Mark's.

When she neared the church she saw a familiar trilby hat perched jauntily on the man ahead of her. She felt the flutter again and grinned, calling out a slightly breathless, "Good morning, sir!"

Foyle turned on his heel, a warm smile breaking across his face, "Good morning! How are you, Sam?" He was clearly glad to see her and continued to smile round at her as she fell into step beside him.

Sam was pleased to see he hadn't changed much. Only the grey pallor that had settled over him in the days before Andrew had come home safely from the War was now thankfully gone. He looked ruddy and almost unburdened with the smile on his face. She blossomed under his smiling gaze, and taking a moment to catch her breath, she said, "I'm very well, thank you."

He eyed her appreciatively, as if agreeing with her statement. "You're looking very, er…" he faltered.

"I know it's a Christening, sir," she began, smiling somewhat wickedly and raising her eyebrows, "but I _was_ aiming rather higher than 'er'."

Foyle bit his lip, pausing slightly in his step. He seemed to realise she was teasing him and it pleased him. He twitched his lips in a sudden movement, "Quite right. You look very nice, Samantha," making it up to her by restoring her femininity.

He glanced sideways at her as they walked up the hill to the church, noticing the becoming pink that had come into her cheeks. Whether it was the climb or his comment, he couldn't be sure, but the soft smile playing about his lips indicated he rather hoped it was the latter.

To break the sudden silence he asked, "How are you getting on at…um?"

"At Sir Leonard's? Well, it takes a bit of getting used to."

"Oh? They keeping you busy then?"

"Rather! I'm the cook, housekeeper, cleaner, driver…and more besides…"

Foyle shot her a quick look, hearing a strained sound come into her voice at the end.

"How about you?" Sam continued, "How's the new office?"

"I try to avoid if I can."

"How's Brookie? Will he be here?"

"He's just gone back up to London."

"Oh, that's a shame. I'd hoped to see him."

They were interrupted as they arrived at the church. Paul Milner, formerly Detective Sergeant Milner under Foyle, hailed them and limped towards them stiffly. He held out his hand to Foyle, "Very nice to see you, sir!"

"Very good to see you too, Milner."

Sam thought his posting to Brighton as Inspector seemed to have agreed with him as, despite the limp from his war injury, he looked buoyant and full of energy.

"Hallo, Sam!" He greeted her brightly as his wife came over with their daughter.

"Oh she's adorable," Sam said, admiring the little bundle, just a month old.

"She's wonderful," agreed Edith Milner, glowing. Turning to Foyle, she said, "So good of you to come, Mr Foyle. Won't you stay for a drink afterwards? We've managed to squirrel away some bottles of Empire Sherry."

"I would be glad to, thank you."

Milner added, "We've got a cake — no icing, but the cake is real."

Sam grinned at him at the mention of cake as they walked slowly up the path to the church.

"Reverend Thomas married us, so we wanted him to Christen Clementine. It's so nice to be back in Hastings," said Edith.

Sam nodded enthusiastically, taking one last glance over the town before entering the church. _Oh how I've missed it here…_

After the service, relatively short compared to one of Sam's father's church services, they settled themselves around the font near the entrance. Standing just behind Foyle, Sam leaned in to whisper, "I just love Christenings, they're even better than weddings!"

As a vicar's daughter, she had seen many and it always gave her joy to see another. Foyle tilted his head with a smile in acknowledgement.

They all celebrated afterwards in the parish hall with the promised sherry and cake, chatting amicably about the old days in the Police. Sam enjoyed being back with "her" policemen again.

"You're sure you don't need a driver, sir?" Sam asked at one point. Foyle only smiled.

After an hour of chatting and milling around, Foyle came to rescue Sam from the clutches of two old ladies who sounded as if they were trying to recruit her for something. They said goodbye to the Milner's and the vicar, slipping out of the hall.

Walking out into the sunshine again, Foyle turned to her, asking in a hopeful voice, "Will you come to lunch? It's only trout I caught yesterday, but there's plenty and the company would be nice."

Sam fairly beamed at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: A afternoon walk on the beach provides an opportunity for our two and sets them on a path of recognition...

According to weather records, June 1945 was a slightly contrary month in regards to rain and temperature for England...

* * *

Chapter 2

In the house on Steep Lane, Foyle and Sam relaxed easily into their old camaraderie. Lunch became rather a riotous affair, both in high spirits and on form due to the sunshine and sherry. Eyeing the trout approvingly, Sam said, "I say, sir! What corkers!" — which pleased Foyle no end. Sam was soon speaking nineteen to the dozen about a range of things, from how there was nothing in the shops, making feeding two men and herself a interesting experiment (if the recipes she'd had to resort to were any indication), to how she felt a bit stuck at Redwood Lodge with no one else about. Foyle listened in amusement as she talked about her new boss, an artist, Sir Leonard, and the young Russian ex-prisoner, now gardener, Niko.

She also asked after those they both knew, like Brookie and the constables, sneaking in a few questions about Police work, which she so clearly missed. _Trust Sam to remember everyone_. Smiling at her thoughtfulness, Foyle answered all her questions patiently. It was incredibly refreshing to have Sam around him again. He realised suddenly that he had _missed_ her; not just her liveliness and cheerful manner, but _her_: endless chatter, questions and all. _Perhaps it's just from talking about old times…_

They also spoke about Andrew, Sam curious to know how he was.

"He's in Manchester of all places, working on a newspaper," Foyle said.

"Manchester? Goodness."

"Giving the job his best, I'm sure."

"Would I be right in saying he followed a girl up there?"

Giving her an upside down smile, Foyle nodded, "You would."

Sam laughed, "Well, good for him." She added, "Is he all right though? I mean, after…well, everything."

Foyle regarded her a moment, saying evenly, "He's fine."

Sam nodded, leaving it there. That she wanted to ask more about Andrew was clear, but Foyle changed topics smoothly. He missed Andrew dearly and wished he might have stayed a bit longer. But equally he knew that the young man had to make a go of it for himself, and being at home wasn't the place for him to do that.

As they began to clear away the dishes of their Sunday lunch, Foyle asked, "What bus are you catching?"

"Trying to get rid of me? The last one, at three thirty."

"Good, so we've got some time then."

"We could go for a walk if you like?"

He looked up from the sink, giving her a half smile. "That would be nice."

The sun disappeared behind sombre clouds as they walked down through the town to the beach. Foyle noticed Sam wasn't as chatty as before, but more reflective. He wanted to ask her what was on her mind, but knowing her well enough, decided to give her some space. _She will tell me when she's ready_. He half wondered if it had to do with her comment, "and more besides," in regards to her work at Redwood Lodge. She had been enthusiastic enough to tell him about her new job, but there _was_ something she wasn't saying.

Watching where they stepped over the shifting pebbles of the beach, they walked along near the rocks in a companionable silence. Foyle walked with his hands in his pockets and after Sam stumbled slightly, he held out his left arm, offering it to her with attentive grace. She slipped a tentative arm through his, smiling at him. _Yes, I suppose this **is** a first_, Foyle thought. But, he reminded himself, he was no longer her boss and they were just another pair taking a Sunday stroll.

The wind was picking up, plucking at the edges of her dress and her curls. He felt enchanted by these movements — mother nature gently tugging at the order mankind tried to create. Her blond hair, now cut shorter, was down and fluttered around her face. He imagined the wind pulling the pins away, creating a cascading chaos of curls. In his mind's eye he saw the hem of her dress blowing freely…

Giving himself a mighty shake, he cleared his throat and looked up — "We might turn back, I think these clouds will bring the rain."

"If we must." She sounded pensive and far off, as if half lost in thoughts. He eyed her carefully.

"What is it?" he asked gently.

She said nothing for a moment and they walked on slowly, not yet turning back. The tide was going out and the rocks to their left were glistening and covered with seaweed.

Foyle imagined he heard a rumble of thunder in the distance and he stopped, looking up again. He opened his mouth to say once more that they should turn back when Sam spoke.

"I have been thinking about the last time I was in Hastings — at the end of the War. All those young men had returned, but they seemed so lost. They looked so afraid. It was haunting." She shuddered.

Foyle chewed his cheek, saddened to know that Sam was still affected by the War. He knew it wouldn't all go away overnight, but he had privately hoped that she had been spared enough that she would be able to move on. He should have known one as sensitive and caring as Sam would empathise with the suffering of others.

"It takes time. Everything probably looked very different to them."

"It's not just _our_ boys though, is it? Look at poor Niko."

He heard the emotion spilling around the edges of her words and he put a hand on her arm. A low rumble of thunder echoed around them.

"We should…" but the rain had beaten him to it. Large, fat drops began to splatter down.

They moved off back towards the top of the beach as quickly as they could, but it was no use. The wind came in from the east and drove the cold rain over their collars to trickle down their backs, soaking the two within minutes. With a subtle roar, the intensity of the rain increased and it was soon pouring off the rim of Foyle's hat.

Spying a cleft in the rock face near the curve of the beach, he pulled Sam towards it, taking her hand to help her up the steep bit. When they were jammed in under the rock, stooping slightly, Foyle whipped off his hat, shaking the water from it. The space was only about four feet wide, narrowing as it went further back into the rock. The rain fell in sheets beyond the cleft, the wind pushing it with such force that it sometimes entered their hidey-hole.

"Lovely summer weather…" Foyle grumbled.

Sam shivered in her thin jacket, dress clinging to her curves underneath. Foyle took off his long coat and pulled it around her shoulders, ignoring her protestations. They stood close to one another in the small space. Water dripped down her face from her curls. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. His hand moved to wipe her face for her, but he caught himself, pausing and holding out the hanky lamely.

Taking it, Sam dried her face, one shoulder of the large coat slipping. Foyle pulled it back around her, hands lingering on the tops of her arms. She breathed in heavily through her nose, and he realised how close he was to her. His heart quickened in a surprising manner, and suddenly self conscious, he turned away, watching the rain closely. She nudged him, handing back the hanky, the other hand grasping the coat lapels, holding it close around her.

He smiled softly before looking away again.

"They'll be all right, these returned men," he said quietly, picking up their earlier conversation. The sound of the rain nearly drowned out his words and she moved closer.

"How do you know?" she asked in a small voice.

"We get through it and move on." He kicked at a pebble and put his hands in his pockets. "Other things thankfully become more important."

She knew he was speaking from his own experiences in the last war, and she sighed a soft, "I'm glad."

After a moment she added, "And us? Those that remained here and learned to become so hardened. Does it get easier?"

"I should like to think so."

She nodded, thinking. "Stupid War…" she murmured sadly.

Foyle chewed his lip and looked at his wristwatch. "We need to get you to that bus stop, don't we?"

The rain was showing no signs of slowing.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to upset your afternoon."

Foyle looked at her quickly, "You haven't — far from it. Look…" he paused, weighing his words, "it seems silly to walk the half mile in the pouring rain and for you then to sit for forty minutes on a draughty bus. You'll catch your death."

Pausing again, he bit his lip. There was a lingering doubt in the back of his mind if this was such a good idea, but he pushed it aside. "Why not use the back room at my house? You can telephone Sir Leonard to let him know."

She smiled, "Are you sure?"

"Well...seems the best solution and you'd be most welcome."

"Thank you, sir. It's awfully kind of you." She grinned at him gratefully. Foyle smiled back. Looking around them at the small space, jammed here in the rocks waiting out the storm, he felt like they were children concocting a secret plan. He felt a faint quiver of unexpected excitement go through him.

"You're welcome — and, er, Sam?"

"Yes?"

"You can stop calling me 'sir'."

* * *

It was still raining by the time they returned to Steep Lane, tumbling through the door. They laughed together as they shook themselves free of clinging jackets and coats.

"So much for the new dress," Sam laughed, looking down at herself, noticing smudges from the rocks.

"You can wash it out if you like. There are some things in the wardrobe you can change into."

She nodded, giving an involuntary shiver.

Foyle noticed and added, "And maybe hot bath as well? I don't want to be responsible for you catching cold."

"Are you sure? What about you?"

"Yes, go ahead. You remember where everything is?" He seemed to find it strange to be saying this, but Sam had been quite at home when she had stayed with him in 1940 after her house was bombed.

She nodded, "Yes, thanks, si—" she smiled, "Yes, thank you."

"I'll get a fire going and make some tea."

"You wouldn't believe it was June, would you? Right, see you in a bit."

She felt him watching her as she went up the stairs to the landing. "I'll lay out some things for you in Andrew's room," he called up as an afterthought.

Sam let herself into the tiled bathroom at the top of the stairs. She sighed, cold and tired, but also immensely pleased to be staying with Foyle. It would give them more time together to talk about the old days. There was also a sudden intimacy that had crept up between them from waiting out the rain on the beach. He had asked her to drop the formalities and she was more than glad to do so. He no longer felt like a boss, but a friend; one she trusted implicitly. It was exciting being here with him again in Hastings, in his house, with an entire evening of pleasant company stretching before them. She ran the taps and sat on the edge of the bath, pulling at her dress. The material felt heavy on her from the rain. _This new way of being in his company was exciting too…_

As she sank into the steaming water, she heard him come up the stairs and rummage around in one of the rooms. Then he descended and soon after she smelled toast. Her stomach rumbled and she realised that even after a large lunch, she was hungry again. Dragging herself away from the warm cocoon of the bath, she dried herself and wrapped a towel around her middle. She washed out the dress and hung it to dry.

Peeking out of the door down the landing, she saw it was empty and moved quickly towards Andrew's room. Inside, she closed the door and laughed out loud at the clothes Foyle had laid out for her. He had given her a variety of choices. There was a beautiful silk wrap that she guessed had belonged to his late wife, Rosalind; a nightie, also in silk, for sleeping in later, or if she preferred, an old set of striped pyjamas. There was also a mismatched pile of Andrew's cast offs. Thinking Andrew's clothes would be warmer, she pulled on an old jumper with a hole in one elbow, and a pair of grey trousers which she had to belt tightly and roll up the cuffs. She laughed again, seeing her reflection in the mirror by the wardrobe._ It will have to do._

Downstairs she found Foyle in the lounge, stoking up a small fire. He too had changed, now wearing a white shirt with an open collar and braces. Leaning over the fire, the shirt was taunt against his back, and Sam felt her stomach drop. She had never been this _aware_ of him before and it surprised her. He turned to her and smiled.

They looked at each other a moment, regarding the other. Sam's mouth went dry and she swallowed hard. There was a different look in his eyes and it warmed her through more than any bath or tea might do.

"Smells nice," she said finally, pushing up the too long sleeves of his son's blue jumper and eyeing the plate of toast.

He motioned to a seat by the fire, "Come sit down. I've got the tea ready."

She sat, another thrill slipping through her as she saw his eyes meet hers, twinkling back at her in delight.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

They had their tea by the fire, talking easily. Foyle too found this new intimacy pleasant, and their talk weaved seamlessly from topic to topic.

"Can't you tell me anything about your police work?" Sam pleaded at one point.

Foyle made a face, rolling his eyes, "You know I can't." _She'd be over the moon if she knew I was in the middle of trying to track down a Russian escapee…she'd say it was just like a spy film and would start keeping watch for me…getting herself in all sorts of trouble…_

"Well, it was worth a try," she said. "No juicy murders or spy rings?"

Shifting uneasily, Foyle said, "That's enough of that, thank you."

She shrugged and gave up, giving him a cheeky smile and going back to her tea.

He found he couldn't stop watching her; he felt drawn to her, looking so small in the oversized jumper, and he put it down to protectiveness, knowing now how keenly she felt the end of the War and the changes it had brought.

After tea, Foyle offered Sam the use of his telephone, and she rang Redwood Lodge to let Sir Leonard know she was stopping in Hastings. There was no answer. She thought it odd, but brushed it off, rejoining Foyle, now in the kitchen washing the tea cups.

"Any luck?"

"No answer."

"You can try again later, if you like."

"I will, thank you."

The rain was still pattering against the window pane and Sam went to stand near it, looking out.

"Isn't it lovely? No more blackouts to worry about…" she said, fingering the curtain. "I have to keep reminding myself the War _is_ actually over sometimes."

"It will all take time before any semblance of normality returns I expect."

"I was afraid you might say that. If only they would lift rationing…"

Foyle smirked, not surprised her frustrations had to do with food. As he hung the tea towel to dry Sam said rather unexpectedly, "Would you like me to trim your hair for you?"

He started in surprise, her words registering slowly. "Er…"

She looked rather pointedly at the unruly strands that stood every which way on his head. The rain and his hat hadn't done them any favours.

"I did Sir Leonard's when I first arrived. He has magnificent, long white hair. He had an exhibition to go to, and I trimmed it to make it a bit tidier. I know artists are _meant_ to look slightly wild, but…"

Foyle cleared his throat, the thought of her trimming Sir Leonard's white mane proving a bit much for his sensibilities. He felt surprised at both her offer, and that she had done the same for her new employer. Suspicion about this man rose again to the forefront of his mind, though Sam's explanation did seem innocent enough.

"And Niko's," Sam continued, oblivious to his discomfort, "I had to shave his — poor boy had nits from the camp."

Not to be outdone by Sir Leonard or the young Russian, and finding it not an unpleasant offer, Foyle said hesitantly, "Er…yes, all right…what do you need?"

They found a pair of decent scissors and a large towel to put around Foyle's shoulders. She sat him down in a chair in the kitchen, tucking the end of the towel into his collar. He admitted to himself that it _had_ been awhile since he'd been to the barber. Foyle found, however, that he was slightly nervous with Sam standing behind him with sharp scissors. He chewed his cheek mercilessly as she drew a comb through his now greying, curly hair.

_Christ!_ He had a sudden shock as she let her fingers trail softly through the curls, sizing them up for trimming. She let a hand rest at the back of his neck, one finger plying the soft hair there. Her touch sent a jolt down his spine where it reacted with his core, making him start. He was also suddenly _very_ glad of the towel over his front.

Chastising himself furiously, he bit his lip hard. _How long has it been since I've felt a woman's touch…_ Yes, Sam was a woman and he could think of her as no less now. He tasted the sharp tang of blood and realised he had bitten his lip into oblivion. _This will never do…_

Although very close to stopping her altogether, Foyle found he couldn't much get a word in edgewise. Sam was giving him a running commentary and he decided to listen carefully to try to restore calm to his brain. His physical reaction to her touch unsettled him. Steadying his breathing, he listened to her. She was talking about missing the Wolseley, and that Sir Leonard's car was a beast to drive.

"It's a Lagonda…beautiful interior, but the gears are hell. Needs servicing, really, though I dare not take it to pieces because I'm afraid I'd never get the ruddy thing back together again…"

He heard the snip, snip of the scissors near his ears and kept still. She ran her fingers once again through his hair to check her work, and he breathed in sharply through his teeth.

"There we are." Her fingers trailed down to his open collar, tugging away the towel carefully, running a forefinger along the inside of his collar. Foyle cursed silently.

Fortunately, she moved away, carrying the towel outside through the kitchen door into the garden to shake it out. Foyle breathed deeply, relieved for the sudden space between them. _Get a hold of yourself, **now**, man._

She came back inside, looking him over.

"Er, thanks, Sam. D-do I meet with approval then?" he asked awkwardly.

She surveyed him openly with a look of mock seriousness, and he couldn't help but find her eyes. They looked back at him frankly, laughter twinkling at the edges.

"You look very distinguished, as my mother would say."

* * *

Curled in silk, the heavy eiderdown over her, Sam snuggled deeper into the narrow bed in Andrew's old room. The last deep blue vestiges of the summer evening were trailing out, and she once again felt grateful there was no blackout. Thinking back over the day, she acknowledged she had perhaps overstepped the mark when offering to trim Foyle's hair. He'd graciously allowed her, however.

The feel of his soft hair beneath her fingers and the sudden familiarity of touching him had made her blush with sheer pleasure. She was glad she had been standing behind him so that he couldn't see her. In fact, he'd had his eyes closed — _maybe he was anxious about the job I'd do._ He had even started, which in turn had reminded her to be careful. She concentrated, her tongue between her teeth at times, chatting aimlessly between snips. When finishing, her hand lingered on the back of his neck and she had heard his intake of breath. Moving away with the towel, she had the distinct impression he was relieved.

Coming back inside though, Sam remembered, their eyes had met and she had felt something inside her leap. She recognised the feeling and the hope that came with it. Now, she was questioning herself severely. _Where on earth did it come from? Perhaps I'm feeling a bit lost too, like those returned soldiers._ That he alone seemed to stand fast against the feebleness of others was apparent in her mind. Foyle had been the stalwart bearing during the War years. Unlike the boys she had known, his eyes asked nothing of her, and he had only ever expected loyalty._ It's no wonder then, really, is it?_

Feeling aware that _something_ had changed, she sighed heavily, turning over and punching the pillow to get comfortable. The room made her think of Andrew of course, and she remembered him when she had last seen him: changed by war and lost like all the others. There had been a hint of his old humour, however. He had suggested they get married, which seemed ridiculous — how could two lost souls hope to make a go of it? Her father had explained the sanctity of marriage enough times behind the pulpit and she'd been to plenty of weddings. _I want to feel what those brides felt_ she thought, remembering the breathless looks and shining eyes. Andrew had teased that he would keep asking because she would secretly love to have Foyle as her father-in-law.

Sam realised that she desperately wanted Foyle in her life; he was so incredibly special — but mostly certainly _not_ as a father-in-law. The odd feeling from before came bubbling up and she turned over again in annoyance. _Oh Andrew, if only you'd been a bit more like him…_

She was nearing thirty and felt suddenly cheated of her youth. Men had always wanted more from her than she could give. They proposed marriage and excitement; they offered love like children, without thought or concern, yet wholeheartedly. They looked with such needy eyes and grasped at her like ones so astray. She thought of Joe Farnetti, her once American beau, probably now married to that French girl he had mentioned in his last letter. They had remained friends despite her refusing his offer of marriage and they had written regularly to keep spirits up. She was glad when he had met someone else, and happy for him without envy. He hadn't written since.

_We had some fun though, didn't we?_ It had been a strange time; enjoying oneself while at War. She felt nearly guilty at the gifts from America he always gave her. She remembered his kiss, wet and probing; his hands that had groped and tugged and frightened her. They had once been in the Wolseley, both off duty and sitting out of the cold when he had pulled her across his lap. His hot breath and insistent whispers shook her, as did the pressing hardness against her hip.

She knew enough from male cousins and childhood friends what was different about boys. They seemed to protect _it_ with a fierceness, and knew from wrestling with a farmer's son, aged eleven, that it was soft and delicate, and brought gasping tears if come into contact with knees or elbows. That it could change and press so insistently made her afraid of all the stories they had been threatened with as girls. No one ever spoke about anything below the ribs, which was maddening, Sam thought, as people seemed to place such _importance_ on it all. Thankfully, she conceded, she had learnt more about boys than cars during her first week in the MTC. Her father would have been appalled. It all sounded rather ghastly — not a _bit_ like in novels, and it had certainly frightened her at the time with Joe.

However, with that uncertain fear was also mixed a devastating curiosity. After the incident in the car with Joe, when she had told him to "jolly well leave off," she tried to understand what she had felt. Her body had seemed to respond without thought…heart racing, pounding through her, an aching that made her quiver…

_Exactly_ what she had felt when stood behind Foyle, running her hands through his hair. The pounding began again suddenly at the thought, and instead of fighting it and chasing it away, she beckoned it in timidly. Curiosity getting the better of her, she wanted to know what the thoughts would do if allowed to be considered.

The smell of him from his coat on the beach came again to her nostrils and she burrowed deeper into the pillow. Now she remembered the feel of his hands lingering on her arms. She imagined being enclosed in them; the unbidden image of his body pressed against the length of hers in an embrace came to mind. She began to tremble.

_And what of his kiss?_ Surely they couldn't all be wet and sloppy things — some must be like in the American films…firm and passionate. She now imagined Foyle as a Clark Gable like character, sweeping her up and capturing her mouth. The subtle flush of pleasure at such forbidden fancy shocked her, and she turned over at once, breathing heavily.

Telling herself firmly to count sheep if needs be and to forget this nonsense, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Saying a quick Lord's Prayer for good measure, Sam put Foyle from her mind as best she could and tried to go to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The stone was cool under her hand and she picked at a loose piece of mortar. The sun broke through the clouds for a moment, warming her face. She was grateful for the comforting warmth and hugged herself to keep from shivering. Looking towards the long gravel drive she thought again,_ oh do hurry up!_

Sam had taken the mid-morning bus, after breakfast with Foyle. He'd given her his bacon ration. She left Steep Lane feeling restored and well looked after. How she wished he were here now. She had rung the police immediately, but she knew it wouldn't be Foyle who came. No, she'd have to look after herself. With this thought she fortified her resolve, standing a bit straighter as a police car bumped up the drive. A uniformed and a plain clothes policeman stepped out. Sam swallowed away unhelpful thoughts. _Time to be of some use to these men and find an answer…_

Finding Sir Leonard sprawled on the floor in a puddle of his own blood that morning had been a shock, to put it mildly. Sam was used to bodies and murders to a certain extent through her previous work with the police and the slight morbid fascination with all things criminal, but seeing Sir Leonard was neither fascinating or thrilling. She still felt slightly sick, but went down the steps to greet the plain clothes man, face determined.

The young man nodded at her. "Morning. I'm Detective Constable Perkins. You telephoned us?"

"Yes, Samantha Stewart."

"And you are?"

"Sir Leonard's secretary and housekeeper."

When Perkins just nodded, Sam felt the need to fill the silence, "I look after his correspondence as well as keep house — the cooking and cleaning and so on…"

"Where is the body?"

Sam led him through the foyer, not much liking this young Detective and his abrupt manner. _Why hadn't they sent someone more senior? I did say there had been a murder…_

They stood looking over Sir Leonard's prone body. Eyeing the bullet wound in his abdomen which had by now oozed a lot of blood, Perkins whistled. "Well, at least we know it wasn't your cooking."

Sam glared at him, "Are you trying to be funny?"

The silly grin on his face slackened slightly and he whipped out his notebook. "When did you find him?"

"This morning." She crossed her arms, still glaring.

They heard a few more cars pulling up the gravel drive and Sam turned.

Perkins nodded with his head towards the door, "That'll be my governor. Wait here."

She scowled fiercely at his retreating frame. _They let anybody in the Police these days…_

Certainly not about to wait around, she followed him. When she saw Milner walking in, holding his hat and staring up at the frescos of the entrance, Sam gave a cry. Her relief was palpable, and she came quickly over to him.

"Milner! Why, I didn't expect to see you!"

"Hallo Sam."

Milner gave her a tight smile as she continued, "I suppose I should call you Detective Inspector Milner now."

"Do you have any idea what happened, Sam?" he asked, following her.

"No, I have no idea. I had the day off, as you know, for the Christening." Sam paused, "Um, I stayed the night in Hastings…When I came back this morning, he was just lying there."

Milner nodded, looking around at the mess on the floor. Books and papers were strewn everywhere.

"The whole place was in rather a state," Sam added, "like it is now…"

She kept her tone bright and businesslike, doing her best not to betray any of the emotion that was trying to catch at her words. She was disappointed that Milner seemed so aloof. Yesterday it had been all laughs and smiles, and yet today, when a friendly face wouldn't have gone amiss, he was strictly business. While she could appreciate this, his manner seemed cold and she felt uncertain of herself. _Maybe he thinks **I'm** a suspect…_

"His paintings, are they valuable?" Milner asked, looking around him again.

"I suppose so," said Sam, "I hadn't really thought."

"Did anyone have a grudge against him, do you know?"

"Well, now you mention it…" Sam looked uncomfortable, "There was a young man who came here last week - Tom Bradley. He wanted his old job back and left quite angrily when he realised he wouldn't be able to get it. I know Sir Leonard was upset by it. I didn't feel too good about it myself…"

"You'd done him out of a job you mean," said Perkins from behind her left shoulder.

Sam turned and glared at him again. "Well, yes. Niko and I."

"Who is Niko?" Milner asked.

"Nikolai Vladchenko — he's Russian; an ex-prisoner. He's been working on the gardens and the grounds."

"Do you know where he is?"

"He should be here," Sam said looking around, "I don't understand it."

Milner flashed a significant look at Perkins who nodded in silent agreement.

"Where did Sir Leonard work?" Milner asked.

Sam led them both through to the large studio, wondering if the paintings had indeed been a motive.

"We will need to take an inventory to see if anything is missing."

"Is that really necessary?" Sam's voice had an edge to it, and Milner looked up.

"Yes."

She felt a wave of alarm go through her, realising what an inventory would mean. Voice high with restrained panic she said, "Um, I might have a list somewhere."

"That's all right, Sam, we'll do it." Milner put up a hand, wanting to keep her out of it.

Not caring much if he thought she was interfering, Sam began to shuffle through things. _I must find those drawings!_

* * *

After seeing Sam safely on the bus, Foyle had continued to his office, only to find a note waiting for him. Recognising the name, he stuffed it into his pocket and went straight back out again. At the top of the hill, in amongst the ruins of Hastings Castle, Foyle found Elsa waiting for him. She was sat on a wooden bench with a subtle old world grace, watching him as he approached, and he eyed her carefully. Though they had been friends once, long ago, her face was not pleased to see him. She had information, as he had hoped, but realised with dismay that it had brought her trouble and caused flutters further up the line. There was something bigger at stake here, he could feel it.

"I may have an idea where you can find your Ivan Spiakov. He was in the camp with two others. One, a young boy called Nikolai Vladchenko, was released early. He was only sixteen at the time."

Foyle's ears pricked up, _could this be Sam's Niko?_

"He was sent to work at a place called Redwood Lodge, near Brighton. It is possible Spiakov went there," said Elsa, confirming his suspicions.

Foyle nodded slowly, touching her arm. "Thank you. I'm sorry for the trouble."

Her face broke into a soft smile, "If I have to ask questions, Mr Foyle, I'd rather they be for you."

Foyle drove quickly towards Brighton, tapping a finger against the wheel. _Why can I never keep Sam from these things?_ he wondered with a sigh. As he drove up the long drive to Redwood Lodge he was surprised to see a uniformed constable standing guard, with many cars littered around the front of the great house. His heart began to race. He stepped out, and showed his warrant card to the constable who then saluted smartly. Walking towards the house he saw Milner coming stiffly down the steps.

"Chief Superintendent?" Milner began, looking slightly confused, "can I ask what you're doing here?"

Eyeing the younger man carefully, Foyle said lightly, "Was about to ask you the same thing."

Milner put his hands in his pockets. "I'm afraid there's been a murder."

Foyle's face drained of colour. _Sam!_

"Is Sam here?" he asked quickly, glancing over Milner's shoulder.

"She's inside. She found the body."

Foyle let his breath out slowly in relief. His right hand was shaking slightly and he stuffed it into his pocket. "I see."

"If you've come to see her I'm afraid that won't be possible just now."

"Oh? Well I've actually come to see Sir Leonard Spencer-Jones."

A young man from just behind Milner's elbow popped his head around, "That won't be possible either. He's the one who has been murdered."

Eyes narrowing, Foyle did his best to keep the incredulity from his voice. "And you are?"

The young man puffed himself up, "Detective Constable Perkins."

"Right, well, in my day a constable wouldn't dream of addressing a Detective Chief Superintendent without permission, and certainly not without calling him 'sir'."

Perkins deflated and slipped away at a nod from Milner.

Milner quite visibly bristled and said none too kindly, "Sir, why did you want to speak with Sir Leonard? May I remind you that you are in _my_ jurisdiction, and if you have information… "

"I don't need reminding," Foyle said sharply, "I'm simply here for information about a missing Russian—"

Milner interrupted him, "Yes, we want to find him too."

Foyle nearly tutted, unused to being interrupted by anyone but Sam. _Right…Vladchenko or Spiakov?_ he thought grimly. "He a suspect?"

"Too early to say. I've only just finished talking to Sam. I've taken her statement."

Feeling fed up, Foyle said with impatience, "Well, if she's just found her employer dead, it sounds like she could do with a bit of support." The blue in his eyes flared for a moment and he levelled an icy gaze at Milner, "So I'll be going in there."

Seeing he was beaten, Milner nodded grudgingly. "Follow me, sir."

Foyle's eyes missed nothing as they walked through the large house. Once in the studio his eyes were drawn to the paintings. At the sound of Sam's voice, however, he spun on his heel.

"Mr Foyle? What are you doing here?"

The relief she felt was reflected in his own eyes at the sight of her, and he smiled gratefully. _Thank God she's all right…_

"Well, I'm not here because of this," he said, waving vaguely at the room at large with his hat.

"Why do you want to speak to Nikolai Vladchenko?" Milner asked, voice still prickly.

At that moment a uniformed constable crossed their path, the movement of air from his stride catching the edge of a cloth that had covered a canvas propped on an easel. Foyle stopped in his tracks, narrowing his eyes. The face of the model was instantly recognisable. He let himself take in the remainder of the drawing for a heartbeat second before moving to replace the cloth. From the corner of his eye he saw Sam cover her face in mortification. _Oh Sam…_

He turned back to Milner, answering his question as if nothing had happened. "I'm not after Vladchenko. I'm here about a man called Ivan Spiakov. I have information that he may have come here."

Milner looked confused. "Well _if_ he came here, he might be a suspect…"

"He did." Her voice startled the two men, and they both looked up from their own subtle match of wills. "Niko's friend — he did come here. Niko told me. There was some money taken a few days ago…he was here and then he left. I didn't see him though." Sam glanced at Foyle, cheeks still bright red and not quite meeting his eye.

"Well, that answers my question," Foyle said with finality. He shot a glance at Milner before moving towards Sam, making it clear their conversation was very much over.

"Sir." Milner stuffed his hands in his pockets again and sauntered away sulkily.

Sam, previously a flurry of movement searching for the incriminating drawings, was now still, head hung and eyes bright.

Foyle touched her elbow, nodding towards the end of the large room. "Why don't you show me the conservatory?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The annoyance Foyle felt about Milner was compounded by an overriding concern for Sam, and more worryingly, a seething jealousy. It boiled slowly inside his chest — _this artist, this Sir Leonard had seen her… that his eyes had studied her beautiful breasts; that he had captured her spark and vulnerability so well…had he taken advantage though? Had more than his artist's eye caressed her curves? Is this what she had been reluctant to talk about…the something 'more besides'?_

Foyle cleared his throat, _good thing the man is already dead…_before checking himself and bringing his mind back to the issue of Sam.

"You all right?" he asked, feeling it was rather a stupid question. Though she seemed unperturbed by what had happened, it occurred to him that she might just be being brave.

"I think so." Sam looked back at the house. "He's not the same, is he? Milner I mean. He was very…cold and unfriendly."

Foyle winced, unhappy to hear Sam had received the same haughty treatment. The urge to give the young man a sharp knock reared up. He swallowed hard and looked at Sam again.

"What can you tell me?" he asked gently, thinking she'd had enough questions for one day and perhaps now needed to talk it out. He nodded towards the house, "Um, interesting work…"

She looked away before speaking. "I'd been working for Sir Leonard for a couple of weeks…I liked him. Very civilised. Then one afternoon we started talking about his work…he asked if I might…pose for him."

Foyle hummed in neutral acknowledge, listening carefully.

"He was going to put the sketches towards a piece for the Royal Academy. I mean…_me_, without a stitch on! Can you imagine what Father would have said? But Sir Leonard said it was going to be one of his best works and that I shouldn't be ashamed about it." Sam stopped, head bowed. "I was quite worried about it actually."

Foyle took a small step closer, touching her shoulder with his, "Well look, don't be. It's not going to happen now."

"I know — I just felt so shabby I suppose." She plucked at the sleeve of the cardigan over her dress. Foyle noticed a single tear slip down her cheek.

"I'm concerned about Niko," she began, sniffing. "Milner and his _constable_ have already decided that he did it, which is completely unfair."

Foyle had to smile at the disdain in her voice regarding Perkins. He should have known, really — Sam had excellent taste.

"Where do you think he's gone?"

"I think he followed this friend of his to the Russian House in London."

"Should start there then."

"Will you take me with you?"

Foyle gave her a sideways glance.

"It's just that Niko seemed so frightened after his friend came here and I promised to stick by him. He's only seventeen. He's very sweet really, and perhaps a friendly face may help."

Pausing in their perambulation of the conservatory, Foyle looked at her. _Ever loyal…_ He noticed how pale she had become during their talk.

"Well…you can't stay here, that's certain."

She looked at him quickly, suddenly worried she was about to be packed off home to Lyminster.

He raised an eyebrow. "Better, er, stick with me, hmm?"

Sam smiled at him, following the nod of his head as they made their way back through the studio to the main part of the house.

"Do you want to make up a bag?"

"I will."

"I'll wait here."

Foyle watched her thread her way through the policemen and mess the intruders or murderer had made. It seemed an odd situation, almost staged, the way things had been pulled down and cupboards flung open. _Made to look like a burglary perhaps…or some kind of struggle?_

How glad he suddenly was that he and Sam had been caught in a rain storm on a beach in Hastings yesterday afternoon, far away from this mess…

It wasn't long before she returned to find him. "All present and correct," said Sam from behind him. Her voice was soft and he noticed she was still pale.

He smiled and nodded, jamming his hat on his head. Taking the large bag from her, he led the way to his car. The lovely blue Riley gleamed in the sunshine and Sam let out an appreciative '_ooh_'.

"They haven't given you a _Riley_? Standard Police issue?"

"Indeed."

"_I_ could drive you," she began eagerly, running a hand over the bonnet.

Foyle looked up from stowing her large bag, "I could drive _you_."

She grinned, "I won't comment, I promise."

They slid in, Foyle smiling over at her from the driver's side, also finding their swapped places something of a novelty. The car started on the first go with a gentle purr and Sam looked on approvingly.

Driving in silence for a bit as they bumped down a narrow lane shaded with tall trees on either side, Foyle finally said, "Do you have a case or trunk that needs sending on? I could ask…"

"No. That was everything."

Foyle must have looked surprised because she continued, "I went home to Lyminster before coming here, switching my uniform for normal clothes again. I brought just what I could carry. It's a long walk from the bus stop."

"I see." Foyle glanced over at her, a soft look on his face. _Everything in one bag and now homeless and without a job too…_

"I'm sorry," she said, looking out the windscreen glumly.

"For what?"

"I'm forever getting into messes or mixed up in things I shouldn't. My father always says so. He thought this would be much more suitable for me than the police. Of course _you_ were the one keeping me out of trouble, had he only known it. One day, though, you won't be there to get me out of a jam and I don't know what I should do…"

The bravery was gone now and Foyle heard the real fear and anguish in her voice.

"You'd do fine," was all he could manage, the sudden realisation of what not having Sam in his life somehow might mean choking him. _Thank you, God, for the rainstorm, thank you…_

"What am I going to do now?" she asked, more of herself than him, "My last employer being murdered doesn't exactly endear me to any future job."

Despite himself, his mouth quirked into a half smile, "No, I suppose not."

What started as a smile on her face suddenly crumpled. To his alarm she gasped out a short babble of hysterical laughter, before dissolving into tears. "It's all my fault…" she sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

Foyle braked slowly and pulled to one side of the lane, turning off the motor. It only made her sobs sound louder and he looked at her in some despair, pushing his hat higher on his forehead. With a resigned sigh, he did the first thing that came to mind: pulling her into his arms, and letting her burrow into his shoulder.

"It's just the shock," he murmured gently.

"I should have been here yesterday," Sam said between sobs. Her voice was muffled from under his chin. "That's why he didn't answer the telephone…he was already dead!"

"It isn't your fault, Sam," Foyle said. "If you'd been here you might have been in danger, and _then_ where would we be?"

"I know, I just feel so guilty…" she began sobbing again in earnest.

He found himself stroking her hair with one hand. _We ask so much of people—how much has she seen that she hasn't even been able to react to properly yet? The War only just over and none of us too sure what is next…_

Remembering her words from yesterday, Foyle rather thought this emotion had been building up in her, and he let it crash over him gladly, keeping her as safe as he could in his embrace. He rocked her ever so slightly, arms tight around her shoulders. He felt his throat constricting, but managed a soft, "I've got you, darling girl, I've got you…shh now…"

He flung a silent curse at the world of men who could create such anguish.

* * *

They arrived back at Steep Lane about mid afternoon. Foyle carried her large bag up to Andrew's old room and said softly, "Look, I've to go into the station to do a few things. Have a sleep and then we can have tea when I'm back. I shouldn't be long."

Sam nodded, touching his arm as he moved towards the landing. "Thank you."

Foyle gave her a quick smile, noting her eyes were still puffy and cheeks pale. _She looks all in, poor thing…_

He drove to the station, Sam very much on the forefront of his mind. She had apologised self-consciously in the car for crying. They had been so close together that he was sure she could hear his heart racing. She had slid back over to her side, taking his hanky quietly and they had driven on. Foyle wished he could do more for her and kept shooting her concerned glances.

However, now much to his consternation she was involved with him in this mess. His nerves seemed to jangle as if ignited by electric, and he couldn't help but feel that he was getting himself in slightly over his head. And not just with the missing Russians…

Busying himself with a furious enthusiasm, Foyle cleared his desk, made a few calls, and typed up one report. If they were headed to London it was best to be a bit prepared. No telling what it would bring. When he sat back, however, there Sam was again: drifting across his mind. He tutted in annoyance with himself and went to stand by the window. He disliked the new office, where all and sundry seemed as if they were walking in and out of each other's space. He felt suffocated by both the office and his thoughts.

_I was fine Saturday_, he said to himself, _looking forward to seeing her and assuring myself she was all right. And then I invite her to lunch and all bloody hell breaks loose…_

He remembered her hands in his hair, and he closed his eyes with a sharp intake of breath. _Dammit all man, you're far too old to be thinking of such things._ But think them, he did. Half of him thought he should be ashamed of himself, and yet it didn't feel necessary wrong.

It had all changed between them; he could feel it and he saw that she felt it too. There was no going back to "sir" from this, he admitted ruefully. He was to blame, of course. He shouldn't have been so familiar with her. _But it's so hard not to…she makes it so easy._ Yes, Sam was easy company and he had felt exhilarated by her presence in the last few days. Once again she had brought the light back into his life, and he only now realised it.

_I must mind myself…_Foyle sighed heavily and collected his things. His thoughts kept him occupied all the way back home. When he came through the door at Steep Lane the house was quiet. Thinking Sam might still be asleep, he crept quietly through the hall, putting his hat on the stand and slipping off his suit jacket, tossing it over a chair. He went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, looking through the days second post. He jumped when he heard a soft thud, and looked up sharply. Eyes wide, he stared for a moment.

"Sam?"

She turned, "You're back. I hope you don't mind — I'm raiding your pantry…missed lunch…"

Dressed in his late wife's silk wrap, tight around her slender frame, her honey hair slightly ruffled, Foyle could only stare. That it suited her was unquestionable, and seeing the wrap being worn again did make his stomach tighten, but that it made her so _alluring_ was not something he had foreseen.

"B-by…all means…" he stuttered, swallowing hard. "Er, sleep well?"

"Like a log," she said brightly, putting back a tin of ham on the shelf.

Foyle loosened his tie and went to fill the kettle, feeling the need to keep himself moving.

"How was the office?" she asked, voice muffled from inside the pantry.

"Er…yes, fine."

She popped her head out from the pantry, "Any new information on Sir Leonard?"

Foyle shook his head. "Too early I should think."

He half turned, "You all right then?"

"I will be," Sam conceded, leaning around the edge of the door frame. She sighed, "It's just I have so many thoughts I don't know what to do with."

Foyle's eyebrows shot up and he bit his lip. _You and me both…_

"What if these people get to Niko before we do? He could be in real danger…he may have seen something…"

He nodded, staring at the kettle, "I have no doubt that he _did_ see something."

She sighed, ducking back in the pantry. Foyle thought he heard her mumble, "I was afraid you would say that…"

Coming back out with a tin in her hand, she placed it on the table and made to move past him.

"I'll just go make myself presentable…"

"Sam?"

He felt her eyes on him and Foyle dared himself to turn. Dragging his eyes up, he found her gaze. _God, she's beautiful._

As if reading his mind, her eyes became soft and the look she gave him made his breath catch in his throat. There was in her eyes a hunger of an entirely other sort, and he froze. Foyle had always considered himself a fairly capable man, but in this instance he felt struck dumb. He could neither move or react. Sam was in front of him and there was no where else to go.

They were at a sort of shared recognition. A gate that they must go through into a new existence, or turn back from entirely. The prospect beyond was enchanting; it beckoned them.

All the propriety hammered in by centuries of culture, mandated by the rules of men was rushing through him. He fought the primal feeling inside him that dictated he should take this woman to him and make her his own. The struggle thrummed through him, blood rushing in his ears. _Stop this now, man, stop this…now…_


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:**_ Who knew silk would be our hero's undoing..._

* * *

Chapter 6

Bound by something deeper than friendship and shared experiences, Sam felt at the edge of herself, the thin line between them taught and near snapping. She _knew_. He _knew_. She was neither shy nor afraid; it just _was_. Yet like after a secret had been told, it alternatively made her want to her run away, and to go to him. The feeling pulled her, tugging this way and that, indecision written across her face. What had been a movement of basic nature, without motive or reason, suddenly seemed like a mistake. He looked as struck as she felt, and some part of her wanted to stop this for his sake. She knew that he would resist, given the chance.

_Had I intended to…?_ she asked herself. Intended or not, here she was, in front of him, feeling herself being drawn into the deep blue of his eyes. The reality and anguish of her proximity was slowly seeping into his features and she wanted to pull away. His nostrils flared, taking in her scent, fresh and damp from the bath. And there was her hand, reaching towards him. _Is it really my hand?_ Sam wasn't sure of anything any more and it was only the small movement of his clenching jaw muscles that brought her back to the moment.

"Sam, I…we…" he closed his eyes as if it would be somehow easier if he couldn't see her.

"Are you cross with me for getting involved with this case?" she murmured, voice not quite her own.

"Certainly not," he cleared his throat, "I just hate for you to be mixed up in these things."

"I'm not very good…at staying out of trouble…"

His hand reached out reflexively, finding her arm.

Then she was there, with him by the sink, one hand grasping for the recently cut curls, the other wrapping around his shoulders. His face turned into her neck, lips whispering over her the soft skin there. She sighed, _at last_.

Just as suddenly, he jumped like a scalded cat, pushing her from him. He stumbled past her, collapsing in a kitchen chair, face in his hands. "Oh God, Sam, please forgive me."

"Whatever for?"

"I have behaved most ungentlemanly and I should not have allowed…" he groaned. "I am sorry for violating your trust."

Sam nearly smiled, "You haven't." Reaching out she removed one hand from his face, holding on to it tightly and bending slightly to look at him.

Whispering she said, "I should never ask anything of you that was beyond reproach. We are two adults, free to choose…"

"But I am too—"

"You are not," Sam interrupted sharply. She couldn't bear for him to think he was too old for her. Not after all they had been through; it would feel unfair.

"How could I ever be what you wanted?"

"Have you considered that this _is_ precisely what I want?"

"I must be honourable, Sam."

"I would expect nothing less. But it does not mean you have to be _righteous_." She touched his chin with her other hand, making him look up at her.

"_You_ must decide, now. I think that I decided long ago…I just hadn't realised it. I will not ask you to enter into anything you feel you cannot, you must see that."

Her words, so reasonable and mature, so logical struck him. But he shook his head, "I condemned Sir Leonard in my mind for any affections he might have shown you. How can I do the same without feeling false?"

"Sir Leonard? Why, that's _nothing_ to do with this." She looked half annoyed.

"How can I, Sam?"

"If you want…you must do what you feel is right. Without denial." She wondered if he was punishing himself. _Perhaps he feels it is disloyal to Rosalind._

"Is it because of Andrew's mother?" she asked softly.

He finally met her eye. "No. I want to do what is best for you. I always tried, Sam, I really have."

"I know. So make me understand _why_…"

He gave a huff of short laughter, "There are so many reasons. You have so much of life yet to live."

"As do you," she said sensibly.

"You would be throwing your life away — for me."

Sam dropped his hand, hurt crossing her face. "Do you think so little of my judgement?" Tears sprang into her eyes.

"No, of course not," he sighed, "_really_, Sam." He rubbed his forehead.

"Then why…"

With an intake of breath he said quickly, "Because I'm fairly certain I love you." He looked up, finding her eyes, "I want you to be happy, even if it is without me, don't you see?"

One might have heard a pin drop in the silence. Their eyes met and held, burning into each other with an impassioned fire. Sam closed the gap between them then, clutching his head to her silk clad breast. He leaned forwards in his chair, wrapping his arms around her middle.

She said with profound relief, "I _am_ happy with you. I can't bear to be without you. I love you…I do love you so, _Christopher Foyle_.

It was the first time she had spoken his given name and it lit up his face. Her mind seemed to be shouting over and over _I love you Christopher, I love you_ and she smiled.

"So you see," Sam continued, "that rather solves it all, don't you think?"

"Oh Sam, my darling, lovely girl…" he murmured, nestling in closer. "Are you _sure_?'

"Completely. More so than ever in my life." How could she make him see that she felt this with every fibre of herself? It had been years in the making, and she stood here with such intense conviction that it made her heart swell.

"What would I do without you?"

As if to assuage any lingering feelings of doubt, Sam leant down, pushing his head back to find his lips. A surge of passion seemed to sweep through her and she began to tremble. His hands were at her face, caressing the flushed cheeks and pushing her blond hair from her eyes. A tear slipped down between his fingers and he leaned in to kiss the trail it made. Finding her lips again, a small sigh escaped him. A pounding heat seemed to race through her and she murmured against him, "You are _everything_ I could possibly want."

To her delighted surprise, he pulled at her hips, easing her down on to his knee. "Are you very sure?" he asked again.

She felt him shaking and touched his cheek reassuringly. "_Jolly_ sure."

He chuckled, grasping her hand and kissing the palm. "We must be mad…" he said softly, in wonderment.

"Mad as hatters most likely, but after having just come through five years of utter madness, why not join the club…"

She threw her arms about his neck and hugged him to her. Disbelief and relief mingled like graceful dancers through her heart. She wanted to cry and laugh all at the same time. "Oh say you're happy and I'll be happy too," she cried, tears coming to her eyes again.

He pulled back to look at her, face open and honest. "I'm so very happy with you, Sam. I always have been, you know."

He kissed her, and she felt him give way. They had come through the gate to find a path opening up beyond them.

"I never allowed myself to hope…" he said, voice cracking. She smothered his words, chasing away the insecurity.

Foyle flicked a tentative tongue along her bottom lip as he felt her respond. She opened up to him, inviting his inquisitiveness in, matching it with her equal curiosity. Sam had never kissed quite like this before and it thrilled her, making her blood pound. Her little huffs of surprised pleasure seemed to spur him on with measured movements. His right hand was at her middle, plucking at the silk. She shivered, the idea of his hands against her body sending more waves through her.

"Let me," she murmured throatily.

Standing and stepping away from him, she undid the silk peignoir, letting it fall open. There was more silk and lace underneath, and Foyle put out his hands, letting them glide easily over the smooth material to capture her waist. She inched forwards under his guidance and suddenly his mouth was nudging at a breast, brushing upwards towards the soft skin of her neck. Throwing her head back, entranced by his explorations, her breath came in a gasp and he looked up with a wicked grin. He pulled her back down on to his knee, kissing her greedily, hands wandering with a mind of their own.

After a moment, his own chest heaving, he paused. Pulling back made her mewl in frustration at the lost contact and he smiled down at her. "I think we'd best have our tea before it's late," he murmured, his nose touching hers gently.

"You _beast_, you can't just distract me with food…"

He quelled her protest with another kiss.

"I want to do things properly, Sam."

"You were doing splendidly!"

He laughed, "Yes, well…that's _not_ what I meant."

"Oh Christopher, please, can't we at least hold on to each other for now?"

Her voice did not plead but perhaps her eyes did, for he pulled her tighter, kissing her cheek sweetly and breathing her in. Sam could not bear to be without his touch at this moment. She needed to reassure herself that he was there, holding her and loving her.

"So," she began a minute later, looking over his shoulder, "um…on the topic of tea…"

Foyle chuckled, burying his face in her neck, "Oh I do love you, Samantha Stewart."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

They somehow got through tea, the washing up and tidying away, and managed to sit down with a finger of whiskey each without mishap and only slight distraction. They found their talk came more quickly and easily now; no more secrets or holding back. Sitting across from her, swilling his glass, Foyle eyed her, head tilted to one side. His face was no longer cloudy and a subtle peace seemed to have come across his features. Making a clear decision had almost taken off the years. Sam was curled in Andrew's customary chair, legs drawn up underneath her. She looked ever so at home there and he smiled.

"You realise I should like to marry you?"

She grinned at him from behind her tumbler, "Would you? I think I'd rather like that."

"Good." He gave her an upside down smile. "I'm going to be rather old fashioned and speak to your father first."

"Poor Father will probably die of shock."

"Erm…" He gave her a look with two raised eyebrows, tongue poised on his top lip to indicate his exasperation.

She giggled, "Never mind, Mummy will bring him around. Besides, I want to marry you and that's all that matter isn't it? Father likes you, really. He just didn't like me being mixed up in Police business."

"Never my intention. To get you mixed up in all this, that is."

Sam grinned over at him and with a slow blink, his face brightened into a soft smile.

"How long have you known?" she asked curiously, throwing him off guard.

He raised his eyebrows again, giving her a sideways glance. He took a sip of his whiskey and said slowly, "From the moment we went to tea by the pier and you ate an entire plate of sandwiches like you'd been starved for a week. Got us the name of that chap too. We made a good team."

Sam put a hand to her mouth and stifled a laugh, "Truly? Golly."

"I shan't ask you the same question," he said, shifting uncomfortably, feeling slightly self conscious in his admission.

"I shall answer it anyway," she said smoothly. "When you saw I'd knocked down that ruffian on the beach with the bin lid, do you remember?"

Foyle smiled.

"You were so shocked. But I think it was _really_ when you took me to dinner at Carlo's. Hmm, must be a food thing…"

"I see." He nodded, chewing his cheek. "So, a while then…"

"Just think, we could have enjoyed all this much sooner."

"I was your boss, Sam."

She sighed, "That's true. Of course I didn't really realise it for what it was. Too naive I suppose."

"I should, er, think so." He set his tumbler down, now empty, "Besides, I would have denied it."

"What changed your mind?" she asked, eyeing him keenly.

He bit his lip and fiddled with a loose button on his open vest. Very softly, with much emotion, Foyle said, "Because, Sam, you were caught in a rainstorm with me on a Sunday afternoon, when you might have been otherwise caught by a bullet."

She nodded, bottom lip beginning to tremble.

"Without you, darling Sam, my life would have seemed very grey." He found her eyes, "And you showed me I had no reason to deny happiness. I resisted because I thought it was for the best. I was…wrong. This is something we could no longer fight."

Foyle opening himself to her _and_ admitting he was wrong was nothing easy, and he sighed wearily, passing a hand across his face. He looked over at her and nodded, seeing she understood. She stood and came to him, silent tears slipping down her face. Pulling her into his lap, he held her. "I shan't ever let you go, Sam."

Sniffing mightily in his ear, she said, "Or I you…I love you, Christopher."

She gripped his neck tightly as if to prove her point. They allowed this new intimacy to descend over them, becoming gradually accustomed to the new sensation.

Rubbing the soft material of the wrap between a forefinger and thumb, he nestled into her. He hadn't been able to part with Ros's things. They were all there upstairs in trunks, packed safely. _Why didn't I go through them and give them away?_ They were just things after all, and he was sure he would hardly recognise most of them now. _Hats and gloves, shoes and frocks…It seems silly to hang on to things that could be of use elsewhere. The jewellery is all for Andrew of course, when he wants to marry…_Looking around the room over Sam's shoulder, Foyle conceded he would have quite a bit to change — it was exactly as it had been for twenty years, all decorated by his late wife. Her photograph took precedence on the mantel alongside Andrew's. _Maybe I should sell and move us somewhere entirely new? A fresh start._

The window, with curtains still flung back, slowly darkened in the late summer evening, beginning at the edges. A street lamp was on for the first time in five years, throwing an odd light across the floor of Foyle's lounge. It was a comfortable cocoon and Foyle felt himself relaxing against her warmth, sleep beginning to sink over him.

"We have a long day tomorrow," Foyle whispered, "bed time, I think." He patted her arm.

She nodded against his shoulder, yawning sleepily, and slipped from his arms.

It was only when Foyle doused the lamps and followed Sam up the stairs that he felt his resolve trickling slowly away again. He gave himself a fortifying mental shake. On the landing he took her hand and kissed it. "Sleep well, my darling."

"You aren't banishing me to Andrew's room?"

Foyle's mouth dropped. "I…I…must. Sam, I can't…we…I haven't even spoken to your father…"

"Surely we can _sleep_ beside one another without the fires of hell consuming us?"

Foyle continued to look at her in wide eyed astonishment, her nonchalance surprising him. "But…you can't just go hopping into any man's bed…"

"My mother always said the person you give yourself to shouldn't be just any old person. It should be someone you really love and cherish. Someone special. That it was important for you both." She smiled brightly at him, "So you see, there's no trouble really, because I love you and you aren't just _anyone_."

"B-but…" he stammered.

"Besides, I trust you implicitly and know you have my best interests at heart, so there."

She had wheedled him about cases in the past, about allowing her to be involved in things and helping out, and he had usually been able to manage her. Now he found himself in quite a new territory.

"I don't think you quite understand, Sam…"

She poked his arm, and said quietly, "I _do_, actually."

"Sam…" he said warningly, raising an eyebrow.

"I shan't come near you. I'll go right to sleep after prayer's, just you see."

He shook his head, feeling he was losing the battle.

"Look," she said softly, "we've been so close beside one another for years, and now we can finally _be close_. That's all I want."

He rubbed a thumb across the back of her hand. "As do I," he sighed.

"It isn't wrong, is it, Christopher? If we love each other?"

He chewed his cheek, conceding with a twitch of his lips that perhaps she had a point. "All right," he said, rolling his eyes with small huff, "but straight to sleep, mind."

She grinned at him.

* * *

_I must be mad_ Foyle thought, staring up at the ceiling, doing his best not to sigh and wake her. She had done just as she'd promised: given him a quick, chaste kiss, said her prayers under her breath, shot him a meaningful look when she was done, and said goodnight, turning on her side away from him. He had chewed his lip, sliding in next to her, keeping to the very edge of his side of the bed.

Trying his best not to think about her was proving impossible. His stomach kept doing somersaults. _She loves me! We are to be married!_ He kept glancing over at her to reassure himself it wasn't all a fancy. True to her word, she'd fallen asleep quickly in exhaustion. Foyle was wide awake, however, worrying and cursing silently that he wasn't free to toss and turn as he normally would have done.

_I suppose I can slip away to Andrew's room_... But the thought of her hurt when she awoke alone kept him still. _Honestly, this is madness…_ He was fairly sure he could keep his desire for her in check…that was not the issue, but it rather was the horrifying thought of putting her reputation at risk that partly kept him awake. T_hough she'd say she was already staying here, and people would draw their own conclusions no matter what_. She would be right too. Even when she was asleep she seemed to exude logic, and he suddenly grinned to himself in the dark. _Really, I wouldn't stand a chance without her…_

He stole one more glance at her, peacefully asleep beside him, and closed his eyes, a small smile playing about his lips. With that, he drifted off into a light sleep, waking each time she shifted, unused to sharing a bed. When he finally fell into a heavy sleep, however, it was troubled. Dreams seemed to plague him. First he dreamt of Andrew, cold worry sinking through his bones as he saw his son slip further and further away on a aeroplane that was crashed into the sea; then there was Sam, being held at gunpoint by a man with no face. _No, I've only just found her…_ he thought, heart racing. He felt helpless to do anything. Sweat sprang out on his forehead and he groaned again and again until a cool hand on his shoulder shook him awake.

He started violently, turning to squint in the dark, breathing heavily.

"Shh," came a soft voice, "you were dreaming. It's all right."

He sank back on to the pillow, sighing heavily through his nose. "Sam?" he asked the darkness hoarsely.

"Who else?"

He drew a hand across his face and realised he was trembling. "Sorry…bad dream."

"It's all right," she said again.

The images of her at gunpoint returned, and he turned, pulling her roughly to him, arm heavy with sleep. "I don't want to lose you," he murmured. His words were slightly incoherent as his face was buried in the soft space between her shoulder and neck.

She stroked his hair gently. "Shh," she said again.

Sam moved her hand from his head to his neck, stroking comfortingly all the while. Her hands pressed at his shoulders and his arms flexed unconsciously around her. The strokes moved along his back, fingers whispering down his spine making him shiver. His lips were on hers then, gentle and without haste. They were measured, sleepy movements of night time kindling. The immensity of his love for her was pooled in his eyes as they adjusted to the dark.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he whispered.

"Glad you did," she whispered back, smiling.

They talked then for a bit, easing into the comfort of each other's arms and letting the dark night wrap them up. She asked about his dream and he told her. They spoke of night time things, slowly and in low voices; patient and easy, all the while becoming closer through this shared affinity. The velvet tendrils of the summer dawn were beginning to show in the sky when they had exhausted themselves of talk.

Foyle felt her become heavier against his arm as sleep chased them. He liked the feel of her and he let his warm hand trace her outline. He felt the softness of her curves and let his fingers trace her breasts. She shivered under his hand and he felt his blood quicken.

"Do you think Milner would notice if I nicked that portrait of you…" he murmured, intent on the feel of her softness, looking at her through half lidded eyes.

Sam's eyes were still closed and she laughed. She shifted and drew him against her, lips tracing his face, one leg coming up to nudge him closer. Opening her eyes, he saw they were curious and Foyle's mouth twitched into a smile as he joined her exploration, letting his warm hands continue to learn the shape of her.

Leaning up to let her warm breath tickle his ear she whispered, "You can have the real thing…"

He breathed in deeply, feeling desire seep into his brain. _I want her…_

Reaching to find the hem of the nightie, Sam pulled, but he made to stay her hand.

"We can't…"

"I'm not asking you to," she said quietly.

He relaxed.

"A girl at the MTC, who knew too much for her own good really, once said…" she paused and reached up to whisper in his ear again.

He did not laugh or draw away, but showed her the consideration he had always done, and for that she was grateful. He merely nodded in solemn acknowledgement of her question. His respect for her was profound, in body and mind, and Foyle found himself admiring her as a whole being, rather than in parts. She amazed and delighted him, and this quiet reflection of her made his heart soar.

"There _are_ other…" he lifted an eyebrow.

"Show me," she continued in her quiet voice.

Observing her for a moment, as if making up his mind, he nodded. "If it gets too much…"

She nudged him with her nose.

Feeling the need to preface his actions he said seriously, yet ever so softly, "You do not owe me anything nor do you lose yourself to me. You are your own being…"

"Yes of course," she murmured.

"All right?" He added, even though her eyes that met his squarely told him all he needed to know.

"I trust you."

It was all he required, and with same measured pace as before, entirely without haste or urgency, he began to give her a clue to what shared pleasure could be. Of mingling body and mind, air and warmth; bringing together movement and stillness, softness and firmness. Of lighting untouched senses in the other…They delighted in this subtle conjunction, aligning their minds with one another.

Foyle found himself conveyed to some higher place by her own tender ministrations. Her innocence was inclined to frighten him at first, and he was careful not to alarm her. But he needn't have worried, for Sam met him at each turn, as if she could read his mind. They made gentle forays of exploration of the other. Lips tracing, fingers grasping, teeth nipping carefully — an altogether thorough expedition.

Gentle hands now tugged at the silk and she helped him slip it off entirely. Her own fingers scrabbled at the buttons of his striped pyjama top. She admired the span of his chest, running a hand across the strong muscles that stood out. The war's rationing had prevented him from growing soft around the middle, and he was lean and hard. Gripping the muscles of his forearms as he leaned down to run his tongue around her breast, Sam gave a small gasp. She began to shiver as their skin came into contact, and Foyle felt his blood warm like a flame.

And it was, when Foyle let his touch find the core of her, that he did precisely what he had said would not happen in this endeavour: he lost _himself_ to her completely and utterly, finding with her something he had never known. They ascended to the heights of pleasure quite safely, and Sam seemed to glow with a tremendous sense of pride that she too had some sort of hold on him. Foyle knew, that now, he was not the same man as before and the flitting thought of _I can do anything with her beside me in life_ skipped across his mind as he fell into a contented sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: At last! Finally get to wipe that silly smile off Adam's face!

* * *

Chapter 8

On the edges of his consciousness Foyle felt a tingling. His body was warm through and he felt the slickness of sweat in the places where their skin met. Realising the tingling was his arm from where Sam was cushioned against it, he carefully pulled it away, doing his best not to wake her. Rolling away from her slightly, he massaged the muscles in his arm and allowed the night air to cool the sweat. His senses still tingled, however, and he cracked open one eye, looked down, and gave a small huff of amusement. Doing his best to ignore it, he shuffled slightly further away her.

This only gave him the advantage of seeing her form better, and he was instantly tingling again from the sight of her creamy skin against the darkness of the night. The rise and fall of her chest was slow and steady and her honey hair seemed to fan across the pillow. Pushing it to one side, he studied her face, so peaceful in sleep. He let his lips trace the curve of her shoulder, smelling his own scent there upon her skin, mingled with her own.

The fullness of her backside pleased him for some reason, reminding him of pears, and he let his hand rest there. He loved her subtle, young beauty; he wished to make it his own. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he wanted to ravish that beauty, to get at its core, to understand it. From somewhere inside him, that old instinct called out to him again to make this woman _his_. His brain slipped towards a primitive urging that slightly alarmed him. _No, no_. He turned over, facing the wall. _Go to sleep, you've a long day tomorrow…today…_

Foyle sighed and tried to calm his breathing that had quickened in those few moments, realising the possibilities that were inches away from him that he must ignore. The internal primal manhood that he was quenching raged against him, taunted him even, and it was with a shuddering breath that he pushed away thoughts of her flesh and a desire that he had not known for so long. She had seemed to blossom under his touch earlier and the staggering proportions of her trust and love swelled within him, bringing him back to his responsibilities.

It was only luck that his body's other need, that of sleep, took over and he was soon off again. Twitching softly, he fell into the realms of deep sleep, a happy man, aware of a lifetime of possibilities awaiting him once more.

* * *

Sam woke still tired to the sound of trilling birds outside. She was hot and thirsty, and carefully stretching and untangling herself from the sheets, she slipped from the room. The tiled bathroom was cool and she leaned against the enamel bath, lowering herself on to the edge. Looking up, her reflection caught in the mirror and she noticed the deep smudges from lack of sleep below her eyes. But goodness, her eyes! How they shone! Sam suddenly grinned at herself and felt her heart soar. Her stomach jump at the remembered touch of him.

She had a drink and freshened herself up a bit. As much as she wished they could stay in bed for the rest of the morning, or even perhaps the rest of the day, she knew they would soon need to be on their way to London. There were bigger things at stake here.

_But oh how I love him…_ she thought dreamily, brushing out her hair. _Who knew a man could be so wonderful?  
_  
With this thought of love for him, she rushed back to the room, wanting to be near him again. To smell him and feel his skin, to encourage his touch…Sam slid in carefully next to him, admiring him in sleep. His long lashes brushed beautifully across his eyes, and his mouth was slightly open. She heard his breathing change as she slid closer, and knew he was waking.

It occurred to her that he might become very proper again in the light of day, and perhaps even be upset that he had allowed things to happen as they had done. _Not that it is entirely against the 'rules'_ she thought practically. _To all intents and purposes I'm still as I should be for a wedding…_

Though Sam also admitted she wouldn't entirely mind being 'not as she should be'._ I suppose I wouldn't be able to wear Mummy's white dress in good consciousness though…_

He stirred and she nestled against him, letting her fingers trail along his muscled arm. She was excited by his proximity and the knowledge of what his touch could do. An eye cracked open and he saw her. For a moment Sam felt relief as a grin split his face, before she saw the sudden dawning and alarm rush in. Foyle pulled back and she could nearly see the thought, "what have I done?" form.

"Oh Sam…" he croaked, shaking his head.

She reached out and placed a finger on his lips. "Before you lose yourself to propriety again, _stop_. We have done _nothing_ wrong, you are certainly _not_ to blame yourself for anything, and we had a marvellous night, so don't go ruining it."

He bit his lip, looking unsure of himself for a moment.

"Good morning…" She leaned in to kiss him, "I love you."

He could only smile at that, and he nodded slowly, letting out his breath. "I love you too, wonderful, darling, Sam."

She snuggled into him, and felt a leap of pleasurable anticipation as he turned her so her back was against his chest. He wrapped an arm around her and pressed all of himself against her. She felt her back arch involuntarily and he chuckled slightly. "Weren't we meant to be getting up at a decent hour?"

"One more hour can't make a difference, surely…"

He acquiesced to her gladly, letting his hands follow the route they had blazed the night before.

They were on their way by late morning, having both bathed, packed clean things for overnight bags, and breakfasted. Foyle allowed Sam to drive the first leg of their journey to London, taking over from her after they had stopped for a roadside sandwich. Everything seemed to be in bloom and it was a pretty drive.

Glancing at her from behind the wheel after they had been driving a time, Foyle asked softly, "You're quiet?"

"Hmm," she nodded, still looking out at the beautiful day beyond the windscreen. "Suppose I'm feeling a bit guilty…being so happy with you, and yet Niko could be anywhere, alone and frightened."

Foyle chewed his lip, acknowledging that her empathy would, of course, cause her own conscience to prick. "We'll do our best to help him, Sam," he said finally, reaching for her hand.

"Did you find out anything about the Russian House?"

"Well," Foyle said, remembering back to what he had gathered together the previous day, "the Russian House is a sort of safe house for White Russians in London."

He squinted through the windscreen and muttered, "What's left of it…"

They were just arriving on the outskirts of London and the damage from bombs was in great evidence. Though Sam was listening, she couldn't help but let her gaze be fixed by the utter destruction around them.

Breaking away from a row of houses that were mere rubble, she turned to him, "White Russians?"

"Yes, White Russians are loyal to the old Czar…believe Stalin took the country from them."

"Oh."

"And Red Russians are Communists and loyal to Stalin."

"But Niko was caught fighting for the Germans?" she said slowly, frowning.

"Well…I'd imagine that's because he's a White Russian and would have been pleased to be fighting against Stalin."

"And since Stalin was on _our_ side," Sam said, "that's why he was a prisoner of war?"

"Yes."

"I see."

Foyle gave her a swift smile before turning his concentration back to the road. Here, rubble was still spilling over into the road, and he edged the car around it carefully.

"We'll stop in to see Brigadier Wilson first," he said, beginning to outline their plan of attack.

"He's the one who told you about Spiakov?"

"Yes. Knew him from my soldiering days, actually. He was my commanding officer…"

Something in his tone made her look at him carefully. "Trust him?"

"Mmm…maybe."

She grinned.

* * *

Waiting for him while he was in the Ministry made Sam think of old times and had to chuckle to herself slightly. It was anything _but_ like old times, but it did feel nice to be on a case again. Though, as she reminded herself, they were both going a bit around proper channels. She hoped the Brigadier would be able to help them find Niko. She felt another pang of guilt as her thoughts allowed her to think _the sooner this is cleared up and we find Sir Leonard's killer and make sure Niko is safe, the quicker Christopher and I can get on…._

She jumped as Foyle opened the door to the car and slid in.

"How did it go?" she asked anxiously, putting a hand on his arm.

"Yes, not too bad." He shut the door and turned to her.

"They found Spiakov in a local hotel. He's been sent away already."

"Niko?"

"The Brigadier is going to look into it. Did get the name of the hotel of where they arrested Spiakov though…"

Foyle started the engine and added, "That's where you come in."

Sam grinned, "Like going undercover you mean?"

"Well," he grinned back, "perhaps not quite. Just gleaning any information, that's all."

"Are we to be Mr and Mrs Smith?"

Pulling out into the road, Foyle rolled his eyes, "_Sam_…"

"Just thought I'd ask…"

Outside the Albion Crescent Hotel, Foyle nodded towards it with a sharp nick of his head, "Right, just ask a few questions, and _don't_ get yourself into any trouble." He dipped a hand into his pocket and brought out some notes which he gave her.

"Where will _you_ be, then?"

"The Brigadier was kind enough to offer to put me up at his club. Can keep a watch on me then, I expect," Foyle made a face. "Anyway, we're meeting for a nightcap in the bar — hopefully he'll have some information by then."

He looked at his wristwatch and turned towards Sam. "I'm going to the Russian House to see if they have any ideas. I'll be back by six to pick you up and we'll go for dinner, all right?"

She leaned in to kiss him sweetly and he smiled against her lips.

"See you then…"

Sam felt his eyes on her as she gathered her bag and went across to the hotel. She wanted to turn back to wave at him, but decided against it. If she was meant to be investigating, it would be best to start right away. The hotel had a lingering smell of cabbage as she walked in, and she wrinkled her nose. It was decorated simply and it didn't seem all that busy. At the desk, signing in at the register, was a young man. He made space for her and she smiled at him.

"You be wanting a room then, miss?" the lady behind the desk asked, puffing on a cigarette languidly.

"Yes, one night please."

The young man handed her the pen and nudged the register towards her. She started at the top, running her eyes across the names to see if she could spot Spiakov's.

Noticing the bottom name and address, Sam said, "Oh, you're from Hastings?"

"Sorry?" The young man looked up from the key that was being shoved into his hand by the lady.

"Hastings — I've just driven up from there!"

"I took the train," he said rather lamely, and Sam bit back a laugh.

Looking slightly uncomfortably, the young man waved his key and said with a shrug, "Well, see you around I suppose."

"Yes, I suppose so." Sam smiled and went back to the register. The lady behind the desk didn't seem much like she wanted to chat, but Sam tried to ask a few questions anyway.

Narrowing her eyes, the lady asked suspiciously, "Watchoo want to know about Russians for? Bad for business, I says, the whole bleedin' lot."

Sam felt the discussion was very much closed and so left it there for now, escaping up to her room. It was small and smelled slightly of damp; there was no electric bulb in the tiny bathroom and the window looked out at the brick wall of the building behind the hotel. Not the most cheerful of places. Feeling just sitting there wouldn't do Niko any good, Sam went down again in the hope of coming across a guest that might have seen Spiakov.

No one seemed to be around, however, and Sam found herself eventually leafing through month old magazines in the front sitting room of the hotel. _This undercover business is jolly boring…nearly as bad as waiting around with the car._

The glass door leading into the sitting room creaked and she heard a light footfall.

"Mind if I join you?"

Sam looked up to see the young man from before. He'd cleaned away the day's travel, hair glistening wetly, and she noticed his smile was less wary than before.

"I'm whacked…"

Without waiting for an answer he saw down in an armchair near her.

_I hope he doesn't expect me to chat with him_, Sam thought at first, knowing that _he_ wouldn't be any use in finding out more about Spiakov having arrived only just before her. However, that felt a little uncharitable, so she glanced at him, and seeing him sitting rather stiffly, gave in.

"Sam Stewart," she said, holding out her hand.

"Adam Wainwright," he grinned, obviously glad she'd decided to talk to him.

"How long are you down here for?"

"Ah, well, I want to get out as soon as possible."

His voice had a hint of dissatisfaction, and Sam looked back down at her magazine, groaning inwardly.

"I have a hotel myself," Wainwright said, "well, a guest house anyway."

Sam eyed him, not taking him for the hotel manager sort. He rather looked like a Cambridge type, if she had to guess, and his clipped tones certainly spoke of some level of education.

"It's called Hill House — do you know it?"

"Um, no."

"No, neither do many guests…Anyway, I've come up to see the War Damage Commission. I'm trying to get a grant for repairs."

Sam stifled another inward groan at the mention of grants and commissions. She'd had heard rather enough of that during the war. However, she heard herself asking, "What's the problem?"

"Oh, everything. They want to see the accounts and building certificates…"

Sam went back to her magazine again, seeking some sort of help from the brylcreem ad that stared back at her.

"I don't suppose you fancy dinner?"

Her eyes went wide with surprise, "I say, you're a bit fresh…"

Wainwright turned to her, "No, no, not really, it's just I'm on my own and I thought…well, I just assumed you were too. Be nice to have someone to talk to…"

_Or talk **at**_, Sam thought, again feeling a moment's impatience.

She looked up at him, "I'm with someone." At the thought of Foyle coming to take her to dinner soon, her face broke into an involuntary smile. "Sorry."

"Oh...I see. Married?"

"No, no. We're working together."

Perhaps the smile that had settled itself on her face spoke of other things, however, for Wainwright just raised his eyebrows.

The door behind them creaked again.

"Sam."

She turned to see Foyle standing with his hat in his hand, a very soft look on his face. Chucking down the magazine, she leapt up, taking hold of his arm.

"Ready?"

"Yes. Starving."

She glanced back at Wainwright, tossing a genial, "Have a pleasant evening," over her shoulder.

The young man stared open mouthed, not quite believing he'd just been passed over for the other man. He shook his head and with a hearty sigh, picked up the magazine Sam had dropped.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Walking along the Strand towards Picadilly in the seeming anonymity London allowed, Foyle put a hand on Sam's hip, giving it a small pat.

"I rather like you in slacks," he murmured, running an approving eye over her form. He hadn't often seen her out of uniform, and this new fashion suited her slender frame well.

She gave him a playful smile and slipped her hand through his arm. "So, tell me, what did you find out?"

"Not much. They weren't _overly_ helpful at the Russian House."

"Niko?"

"Hadn't heard of him or Spiakov." He bit his lip, "So they say."

"_Bother_."

He had to smile slightly at that. "We're doing our best, Sam. Let's hope the Brigadier has found something for us."

"Yes, I know. It just feels so hopeless."

"Well, it isn't. Yet."

"And here we are," she continued, voice still agitated, "going for dinner and Lord knows what's happened to Niko."

"Well…detective's have to eat…" He squeezed her arm. "And I know just the place…"

"Oh?"

"You'll see." He paused, swinging her around towards him. "Look, we're doing what we can for Niko. We've got to stay calm about this. I have the feeling we're not much wanted in London, and the Brigadier has told me in no uncertain terms that he'd rather I dropped it. We must be careful and go about this sensibly."

She leaned against him, nodding slowly, "Yes, of course. You know I can keep my head."

"Yes," he kissed her cheek, "I do."

"Now come on, I can't have you starving and wasting away…"

Sam giggled and quickened her pace to match his. He was pleased about something, she thought. Foyle took her to a restaurant off a side street. It didn't look like much from the outside, but once they had gone through the doors it was like something out of a film. The décor was simple, but felt exotic: potted plants were in abundance, the lighting low from shaded hanging lamps, with large semi-circled booths set back into private corners. A long bar ran alongside one wall, smaller tables and chairs in front of it and a piano to one side. Sam immediately thought of the film _Casablanca_ and turned to Foyle with eyes aglow.

He put his lips near her ear, "_And_ I hear the food is good."

A short man with a pair of hideous moustaches came to greet them and led them to a booth towards the back. Sam sat, still looking around them. Foyle ordered the wine after a quiet, under-toned consultation with the short man. Sam noticed he was chewing his cheek again, looking for all the world as if he couldn't sit still. She wasn't sure she had ever seen Foyle fidget and she stifled a laugh.

Putting a hand out to take his, she smiled at him. "I do love you. This is better than fish and chips any day."

"Well," he grinned, "must keep you, er, in a decent style."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Not quite Carlo's, I agree, but…still, only the best for you. My clever, darling Sam."

"I'm immune to flattery." She raised the other eyebrow, "What is it?" She realised now what she had taken for a spring in his step was actually nervousness, and having never known Foyle like this, she was beginning to worry.

"No, no, nothing, I'm, um…"

The man arrived with the wine, and Sam kept her gaze on Foyle, not going to let him get away with not saying what he was thinking. When the wine had been poured and they were left alone again in the private cocoon of the booth, Sam grinned at him. "_Christopher_."

He closed his eyes and conceded with a little nod. Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit, he pulled out a small box. Sam breathed in sharply. He set it next to her place setting, saying simply, "For you."

She looked up at him, eyes wide.

He smiled at her, "Turns out there is a jewellers near the Russian House…"

Her eyes filled with tears, and she brushed them roughly away.

"I still want to speak with your father, but I couldn't pass up this little treasure."

_Little treasure indeed_ Sam thought, admiring the simple yet beautiful ring inside the velvet box through misty eyes.

He took it gently from her and slipped it on to her finger. "Sam…"

She smiled up at him, squeezing his hand, "Don't know why you are so nervous, my darling man, I've already said 'yes'."

Foyle gave a small chuckle, "Yes, well…I'm not used to this sort of thing. I want to do it right…"

She leaned in to kiss him and he smiled against her lips. "You _are_. A thousand times, yes. I love you, Christopher. It's beautiful, thank you."

"As are you, my dear girl." He turned her hand this way and that, letting the light catch at the ring, both admiring it. "As soon as the case is over, we'll go up to Lyminster and speak to your father."

"Oh never mind Father," Sam began irreverently, "I'll marry you like a shot, no matter what he says."

Foyle bit his lip before managing a soft, "Jolly good."

Taking up the menu, Sam gave him a grin, "Can we order now?"

Foyle laughed, "Should have waited until after the starters, shouldn't I?"

She kissed him again, sweetly and lingering, "You're all I need," she murmured, "however… all this excitement has given me rather an appetite."

"You and me both," he murmured back, amused by the soft flush that came into her cheeks.

* * *

It was stuffy in the small room at the back of the hotel when Sam woke the next day. Though the room was uncomfortable, she'd slept heavily, catching up on the sleep she'd missed in Hastings. She smiled to herself, thinking about Foyle. He'd been sweet in the car on the way back, hating to leave her to go meet with the Brigadier. She wish he could have come back to her, but a good night's sleep hadn't gone amiss.

Leaping out of bed, Sam smiled again, thinking that perhaps today they would at last have some news about Niko and could begin to help him. She packed her small overnight bag after washing and dressing, and went downstairs quickly, glad to be out of the confining room. She could smell burnt toast and sausages as she came towards the reception, and her stomach growled.

_There might be time for a quick bite before he arrives…_She checked her wristwatch, and thought better of it. _He'll want to get on and he's due in five minutes..._ As it was, Foyle was late, and Sam was huffing in annoyance at a missed chance at breakfast when he came through the doors, hat in hand.

"Good morning. Any luck?" She asked quickly.

"You ready?"

She said rather pointedly, "Ready and _waiting_…" It was then she noticed his face. Something was wrong.

Foyle asked the lady behind reception, "Do you have a back way out of the hotel?"

The lady stopped filing her nails, and looked up sharply, "Depends why you're asking." She shot a narrow glance at Sam before looking back at Foyle.

"Well, there is someone out there I'd rather not…"

"Someone following you?" Sam interrupted, a frown creasing her forehead.

"Could be."

The lady came forwards, throwing up her hands, "I don't want no trouble here. Had enough with them bleedin' Russians, didn't I? You trying to avoid someone," she shot another look at Sam, putting two and two together and making five, "isn't my problem, you hear?"

Sam would have laughed at the lady's assumptions of a lover or husband lying in wait outside if the situation hadn't been quite so real.

"No, no there won't be any trouble. It would just help if there was a back way, that's all." Foyle smiled briefly at Sam, trying to keep her from worrying.

"Down the stairs, to the right," the lady said with a sigh, shrugging her shoulders.

Foyle led the way, taking Sam's free hand.

"Do you really think they would have sent someone after you?" she hissed as they hurried towards the stairwell.

"You can never be too sure," he said grimly, taking firmer hold of her hand.

"But _why_?"

"Good question."

"What did you find out yesterday?" she demanded, trotting down the steps behind him, overnight bag bumping against her leg.

"Nothing."

"Then why…"

"Apparently 'nothing' is still worth keeping quiet," he replied sharply. "Something is going on here that's bigger than we thought."

She went quiet as they tried the many doors leading off the rabbit warren of corridors. Foyle was worried and she suddenly felt frightened.

Jamming his hat back on his head, Foyle motioned towards a door at the far end. "Here we go."

He opened it, but seeing a flutter of movement beyond, shut it again quickly. "Upstairs, now!"

His voice was cold with fear which sent Sam scurrying upwards. The sharp _ping_ of metal sounded and her heart began to race.

"Christopher!" she cried, a slight panic edging into her voice. "What is it?"

"Just keep moving, Sam!"

Together they went through the hotel, rushing towards the entrance. Out of the corner of her eye, Sam saw Adam Wainwright coming from the breakfast room, his jacket over one arm. He must have seen her rush past, because he came out calling her name. Another sharp metallic ping sounded and suddenly Wainwright was yelling, dropping to the ground. Angry, red blood spilled from between his fingers from where he clutched at his shoulder. Someone screamed. Sam looked up from the young man sprawled on the floor to see a dark figure moving towards them. He held a gun, and she felt herself freeze in fear, mouth open in shock.

"_Christ_!" Foyle swore. He tore the overnight bag away from her grasp and chucked it down, grabbing Sam's arm and dragging her the rest of the way out of the hotel. He nearly pushed her down the few steps onto the pavement. "No, not the car, come on."

Sam felt for his hand, and without looking back, she ran alongside him on the pavement, not entirely sure what good running away would do. What chance could they stand against a man with a gun? _Oh Christopher…_


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Many thanks for those who have read and reviewed. Your kind words are always appreciated!

* * *

Chapter 10

_Must get her to safety...can't let her be hurt…_

Foyle was panting already, not used to running or feeling quite so much adrenaline coursing through his system. He looked around wildly for a shop or cafe or anything that was open that he could shove Sam into before drawing the man with the gun away from her. As it was, there wasn't enough time even for that. He looked behind them and saw the dark figure still there. Foyle supposed he wouldn't start shooting on the open street — perhaps their best bet was to find a crowd to become lost in. _But how many men are there? Are there more than just the one with the gun?_

They raced along, Foyle still trying to come up with a plan. It was too early for large crowds, and he swore again, wishing he knew this area of London better. He risked a glance behind him, and saw that turning the corner had given them a brief edge.

"Look," Sam cried, pointing, "this way." There was an old air raid shelter underneath a church, and the door was open, a wheelbarrow stood dejectedly nearby.

"No," he tried to say, but his breath came in gasps. Sam was already tearing down the steps and for a split second he thought about turning back towards their pursuer to confront him openly on the street. _At least there would be witnesses…someone would be able to identify the attacker and we, well **they**, could lock him up…_

He was thinking like a policeman, but his other instinct also kicked in, and looking after Sam became more crucial. _Can't be sure he wouldn't pursue her after he's dealt with me…_ Foyle raced down the steps after her, slamming the door behind him. _No lock, damn!_

Chest heaving, he leaned against the door, hand rubbing his face in agitation.

"Maybe we gave him the slip?"

Foyle only nodded.

A heavy footfall on the stone steps outside indicated otherwise, and he moved quickly towards Sam, grabbing her hand and leading the way further into the underground shelter. The _drip, drip_ of water came from somewhere up ahead and he felt the temperature dropping. Tearing his hat from his head, Foyle wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. They moved quietly, Foyle listening with one ear for the sound of someone behind them. He gave Sam a little push, catching her eye and signalling that she should go on ahead to look for a way out.

It felt like a crypt, smelling damp and musty and Foyle shivered even though he was warm from running. He found Sam at the end of the underground tunnel, a large stone wall in front of them. He took her hand again, following the wall along to the right. He saw shafts of light coming from tall, narrow window panes that were at street level. It gave a bit of light to see by, and he noticed, with relief, some stone steps leading up. Sam quickly went up them and tried the wooden door at the top.

Leaning against a stone pillar, Foyle looked up, the utter horror of realisation hitting him that if the door wouldn't open, this might well be it. He felt winded; not from running, but from this awful thought. Sam pulled frantically at the door, but it wouldn't budge. She turned towards him imploringly and just as he was about to move to her side, a sound echoed through the tunnel. He motioned to Sam and she crept back to him carefully and quietly. The footfalls were coming closer, ringing off the stone floor. Her mouth turned down with emotion as she burst into silent tears. She too had realised.

Foyle suddenly remembered his dream from the other night of Sam being held at gunpoint. He began to shake and felt waves of guilt wash through him at the thought of her in this danger. _Maybe I can reason with the fellow to let her go?_

He pulled her to him, closing his eyes tightly in anguish. _I'm so sorry, Sam, how can I have let you get into this mess?_ He couldn't voice these words, the large lump in his throat preventing him, so he found her lips and crushed them to his own, desperate for her to understand. All the possibilities he had woken with that morning seemed to fly right away from him, and he felt an impossible despair at the thought of all the opportunities of a life with Sam now to be missed. _Oh why didn't I make love to you when I had the chance? Why didn't I tell you all those years ago? I love you, I love you. Forgive me, Sam…_

She seemed to understand, trembling with fear and clinging to him. They heard another sound, followed by a creak and a shuffle. Foyle kissed her once more, then moved her behind him, turning to shield her with his body. The whining of an ambulance siren went past. Beyond the window panes life was still moving at a headlong pace. Here, he felt time was standing still. He saw a shadowed movement; a flash of metal as the gun was raised towards him, and he flinched as the sharp report of a pistol sounded.

Everything then seemed to move in slow motion. He heard Sam whimpering behind him, he heard the echo of the shot rattling around the stone tunnel; the man in shadows moved, falling down in a heap, and another shadow came forwards, kicking the pistol away. Foyle saw the man's face in the dim light of the window pane. _Alex Anokhov. From the Russian House…_

"Mr Foyle," the man said simply, looking at him with mixed impatience and solemnity.

Foyle's eyes had gone wide, and now he closed them in relief. He reached behind him, pulling Sam away from the stone pillar. "Glad to see you Mr Anokhov."

He put a shaking arm around Sam's shoulders. Touching her face with his hand, reassuring himself she was unhurt, he asked, "You all right?"

She nodded, wiping away the tears bravely now it was all over. He breathed out again in relief, squeezing her arm.

"Is he dead?" Sam asked in a quiet voice, looking around Foyle.

"Yes."

Foyle gripped her shoulder more tightly. "You sure you're all right?"

"Yes," she nodded, smiling up at him weakly.

"Right," he rubbed her arm, "better go find the police." _The sooner we get out of here, the better…sure Anokhov has some sort of immunity with the police, and we can't just leave the man here…_

"No police required, Mr Foyle — I have men that I can trust to sort this out."

Foyle bit his lip, hesitating before nodded gravely, realising he was slightly out of his depth.

"How did you know where to find us?" Foyle asked Anokhov, looking at him properly now that he felt Sam whole and unhurt beside him.

The man wore a long trench coat with a cap pulled low over his eyes, face impassive. He seemed unperturbed that he had just shot a man. _Comes with the territory no doubt …_ The Russian looked on them with keen eyes, but without judgement. He held himself with an understated authority, and Foyle at once felt glad he was on their side.

"I followed you yesterday after our meeting, so I knew you would come again." Anokhov's eyes flicked towards Sam almost imperceptibly. "I was waiting for you outside the hotel," he said, "when this man came following you." He nudged the dead man with his foot. "When yesterday you said Spiakov had been arrested I became suspicious…"

Foyle moved away towards the entrance of the tunnel. "Russian safe house _not_ so safe then," he said dryly.

"This has been my concern for many months," said Anokhov, following them along the tunnel.

"But who is that man?" asked Sam, shooting an anxious glance behind them over Foyle's arm still protectively about her shoulders.

"I do not know…it is possible that he is an agent of Russian counter intelligence."

"Duveen?" Foyle asked, referring to the owner of the Russian House he had met with yesterday. _Slimy, unhelpful character that wouldn't be beyond this…_

"He is traitor, certainly." Anokhov sounded angry. "He's working with the communists and your government in sending Russian prisoners to their death."

Foyle bit his lip. "Well, I have a good idea why that man was sent."

"Yes, too many secrets your government would not wish to be made public."

"They'll be disappointed then."

Anokhov gave a grim laugh as they arrived on the street, "You would be better off leaving London, Mr Foyle. I think it is quieter on the coast…"

"But what about Niko? Nikolai Vladchenko?"

"I am sorry, miss," Anokhov said with a shrug, "I cannot help you."

Turning back to Foyle, the young Russian added, "Another meeting with your Brigadier Wilson might be in order, Mr Foyle."

* * *

It was a good few hours before Foyle was stood in the large, echoing foyer of the Ministry, waiting to see the Brigadier. They had been through it all with Anokhov, seen Adam Wainwright off in the ambulance, and tried to reassure the hotel that the damages would be attended to. Foyle had given them the Ministry's number. He was in no doubt where the blame lay in this case. He had pressed Sam to drink a cup of sweetened tea, only stopping to take a few mouthfuls of his own. He was worried about her, but she had put on a brave face through it all, and he was both relieved and proud of her.

Sam insisted on going to visit Wainwright in hospital, saying, "It's the least I can do. He _did_ take a bullet for us." Though she had been shaking at the time, Foyle finally agreed. He was shaken up too, but they both had things they must do, he admitted. Foyle had collected the car and driven her around to St Bartholomew's before returning to Whitehall.

When he was finally ushered to Brigadier Wilson's office, the older man greeted him with a thin lipped, slightly impatient smile. "What can I do for you, Foyle?"

Foyle told him what had happened, and the Brigadier looked suitably shocked. "Are you really saying this happened on the streets of London?"

"Yes, I was rather surprised myself…" Foyle crossed his legs and shot the other man a narrow look.

Foyle gave him a succinct breakdown of his thoughts regarding the matter of repatriated Russian soldiers, what he had learnt from Anokhov, the shambles the whole operation seemed to be in, and was quite clear in his opinion of who was responsible.

"We must be pragmatic, Foyle," the Brigadier said sharply. "There are thousands of British POWs in Russian hands. We had to do a deal with Stalin, and we don't know that the returning soldiers will be harmed when they arrive back. Mere rumours."

"So we fought two wars to be pragmatic?" Foyle was losing his patience, and he felt his colour begin to rise.

"What is it you want, man?" said the Brigadier impatiently. "I have only been following orders from on high — had a directive come through last month."

"And this morning?"

"I knew nothing about it," the man held up his hands, looking at Foyle as if he had gone mad.

"And yet…" Foyle pursed his lips and let his eyes swivel up to find the Brigadier's. They bore into the other man, making him sit back in his chair. "_You_ were the only one who knew I was staying at the club. _Your club_. Where the man you sent followed me from."

"You can't really believe I would condone murder. You're out of your mind."

"And as to what I want," Foyle continued without missing a beat, "your resignation for a start, and Nikolai Vladchenko returned to Hastings. He's a main witness in a murder inquiry."

The gaze he levelled at the other man was of icy steel, the blue there flaming with a nearly unharnessed fury, and he gave his former commanding officer no quarter.

* * *

Sam was waiting for Foyle in the agreed place when he pulled up about an hour later. She piled in next to him gratefully, grasping his arm and leaning in to kiss his cheek. She was pale and quiet, and he noticed her hand remain on his arm as if for reassurance.

"He'll live?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Foyle pulled out back into the street, moving carefully through the traffic. "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

"You want to drive back now? It's getting late."

"Hotel?"

"No, perhaps not. Home is probably best."

Foyle moved his hand to grasp hers tightly. He murmured softly, "I like how you say that."

"What? Home."

He turned briefly to her, "Yes. _Home_."

She smiled at him, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. She was still shaken, he could see that. He told her what had happened at the Ministry and she only nodded sadly.

"But look, Niko will be all right."

She nodded again.

"Shall I pull off somewhere…we could have something to eat…talk?"

"Yes, all right."

He drove on until he saw an open cafe, set back only slightly from the road. Here too the bomb damage was still being repaired, buildings seemingly at random reduced to rubble. As he pulled the hand brake, she put a hand on his knee.

"Might we talk first?"

"Yes, of course." He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. "You all right, my darling? Very sorry that you got involved in this." He chewed his cheek in agitated emotion, looking at her with heavy eyes.

She nodded, beginning to cry. He squeezed her hand, "Oh Sam…" he sighed, wishing he knew how to begin to explain how sorry he was.

"It isn't your fault, Christopher." She rubbed her eyes, "Sorry, just all rather much."

"I'll say." He pulled her to him, putting his lips against her ear, "I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to you."

She gripped his shoulders more tightly, "Nor I you, Christopher. Oh, my darling man, I might have lost you."

Foyle saw that the tables had been awfully turned, and she'd had a sudden insight in to how he had felt not a few days before. He felt sorry for that too, and said as much. They held on to each other gratefully. They knew now that there was nothing to come between them. The decisions they had made that had brought them together, and the experiences they had gone through in such a short time bound them indubitably. Sam continued to cry, but gradually he felt relief sinking in to them both, and she relaxed against him.

Sniffing she said, "Well you _certainly_ know how to show a girl a good time."

They both laughed together softly, Foyle giving a small huff of, "Yes, well…"

"We would do best to be married as quickly as possible if this is any indication," Sam continued lightly, wiping her face with a grubby hanky.

"We will," said Foyle firmly. "Lost enough time as it is. I want to begin our life together, Sam, I really do."

"Well, let's start with sharing a meat pie," she said, nodding towards the cafe.

"Not an entire one for yourself?"

They got out of the car, Sam saying, "I didn't want to sound greedy."

"Well, I could eat a horse myself after all this running about. We'll each get one." He held out a hand for hers, briefly kissing the ring that stood out there. She put an arm around his middle as they walked towards the cafe.

"Be careful what you wish for," Sam said with a sudden grin, "you can never be _quite_ sure what goes into these things…"

* * *

The street was enclosed in shadows when they arrived in the late evening. Foyle felt a moment's self conscious relief for this — the curtain twitchers would have enough to gossip about already with Sam staying two nights previously. And yet, could she really continue to stay here? It really wouldn't do…she'd have to be at home while the banns were read. The prospect filled him with a desperate sadness. To be away from her now that they had become so inordinately close was not something he wanted to bring up just yet. For the sake of propriety however, he knew he would have to.

In the small hallway they pulled off hats and coats, setting overnight bags at the bottom of the stairs. Sam put a hand on his chest, over his heart, staying him with the motion — "will it get you into trouble?"

"No. With your father perhaps, but the world is changing…"

"You haven't necessarily changed with it though, have you?"

Foyle gave her a half smile, "Perhaps not entirely; propriety has its place…"

"How long will the banns take?"

"A few weeks."

"I don't suppose people still go to Gretna Green do they?"

"What, and have your father and uncles string me up for it afterwards?"

She seemed to have read his mind again when she added, "You'll send me home, won't you?"

"I should like to think you would go of your own free will without me sending you…" He arched an eyebrow at her with a hint of amusement. "It will be expected, my darling."

"I know…"

Foyle swept her in to his arms then, whispering in the small space of hall, "If I could, I would never have you go away from me…after all that has happened…after today, I nearly can't bear it…"

His breath was hot against her ear, his whispered words ringing with an edge of hopelessness that Sam didn't like to hear.

"We mustn't look at like that," she began sensibly. "I don't want to be away from you either, but if a few weeks is all that is standing in our way of a life together, I will manage. Won't you?"

He chuckled softly, feeling almost light-headed with her here against him at the foot of the stairs, hearing her levelled headed reasoning once again reassuring him.

"What would I do without you?" he murmured, letting his lips trace the outline of her cheek, nudging her closer to him.

"Let tonight be _our_ night…before the rules of the world claim us…please, Christopher." Her voice had become low and Foyle pulled back to look at her. He suddenly knew what she meant, and it both thrilled and worried him.

She sensed this, and putting a soft hand on his cheek she smiled up at him. "Oh my darling man, has today shown you nothing?"

He clung to her then, pulling her roughly into a tight embrace, knowing she was right. This was beyond propriety and the restraints of society were no longer important. Could they risk any more lost chances? He felt the fear of earlier return to him again, and he began to shake. Sam let her hands run up and down his back, one at last slipping up to cup the back of his head, fingers trailing through the small, cropped curls there in a soothing motion. Adrift in this moment, Foyle felt at once both lost and yet found. He needed her more than ever. The culmination of the day's events broke within him, and he gave a small huff of a sob, burying his face in her neck.

She murmured soft sounds to him and he felt the wetness of her tears fall against his skin. Finding each other's lips, Foyle nodded, saying throatily, "Are you certain, Sam?"

She pulled away, eyeing him squarely and frankly. He saw there a depth and spark, and he felt as if his nerves had been electrified. The blood began to rush to his ears. Yet, he understood that this was not mere indulgence, but in fact something deeper and binding, important for them both. With her mouth set seriously, she said quietly, "Make love to me, Christopher."

He had decided before she had even asked, but now moved in to capture her lips with his own as if in answer, suddenly smiling amidst their kiss. She nipped at his bottom lip, grinning up at him.

Though tired from a day of running about, adrenaline and emotion, and the long drive back, Foyle was spurred into action. His hands were everywhere at once, and Sam had already begun to tug at his shirt buttons.

"Upstairs?" he murmured questioningly.

"I'll race you," she said mischievously, giving him a small push and dodging past him with a laugh.

"Oh I see," he said rolling his eyes, grabbing the banister to haul himself upright, tearing up the treads after her. He caught her hips and stopped her just as they reached the landing and together they crashed down to the threadbare rug. Sam gave a squeal followed by a giggle, and Foyle moved himself over her, ravishing her lips. "Got you…"

But it was perhaps, that Sam had got _him_, for with a flick of her tongue, she felt him respond breathlessly and his kiss became deeper than before, probing and delightful.

"As much as I like your landing, Christopher," Sam began, shifting underneath him, "it isn't exactly comfortable."

He chuckled and rose to his feet, offering her a hand to help her up. They went into the bedroom, Foyle closing the door. When he had turned back to the room, Sam had begun to shed her clothes at a remarkable speed. He was beside in a moment, pulling off his own as well as trying to help her with hers, both getting in the way of the other. They collapsed on the edge of the bed with sudden helpless laughter and attempted to proceed more efficiently.

Foyle's warm hand traced her collarbone, sliding down to find her breasts, now bare to him. "Are you nervous?" he asked softly.

"Not at all," she smiled warmly at him, touching his cheek. "Are you?"

He gave her an upside down smile, the corners of his lips turning downwards in slight amusement. "Well…"

Leaning her back he moved to lay beside her on the top of the counterpane, stroking her cheek with the back of his forefinger. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and admitted quietly, "A bit…"

She sensed his reservations; she understood them, and knew they were nothing that couldn't be eased. "I love you," she whispered to him, drawing him against her, "and I always shall."

He moved with her, and realised now that there had been enough talking. Enough words spoken. They no longer needed to speak, she knew him through and through, and he could read her just as well. It was with this alignment that Sam finally broke into a smile that reached her eyes, twinkling up at him with love. He saw himself reflected there in her depths and he relaxed, grinning back. In that moment they had overcome the last hurdle, and from here the path leading from the gates of recognition was smooth and even.

They came together with a symmetry nearly unknown to either of them before. No one person leading, but rather meeting each other equally as passion prescribed. Movements became suddenly dictated by instinct and deeper emotions than either might have fathomed. After days of such uncertainty, this coupling was the surest, most pure and sensible thing. It was not merely physical, but something more — a coming together of souls and minds; establishing an infallible understanding.

They wept together for the beauty of it; for the relief and assurance it seemed to bring, and for feeling alive in a life so transient. From here it was only forwards and that too thrilled them both. In the height of it all, as Foyle felt from within her the rolling wave of pleasurable release, he too let himself go to join her in the heady aftermath.

His chest was heaving again for a second time that day, and he said with a grin as he eased himself down beside her, "All this exertion will do me a damage…"

"If we can survive days like today, my darling, and live so fully in the knowledge of that, nothing can stop us." She grinned back at him in soft amazement.

Foyle smiled, wrapping her up close against him, the feel of her warmth and the scent of her bringing fresh tremors to his system. "With you, Sam, I feel I can do anything."

"Well you can — you're brilliant."

He chuckled, kissing her damp temple. "And you're a wonder. Together I think we make rather a formidable team."

"So can I become your driver again?" she asked sleepily, nestling into his shoulder.

"Wouldn't dream of going anywhere without you…"

_Fin_


End file.
